For a few months I’ve been writing a blog composed of a mixture of self-indulgent ramble and mediocre poetry in an attempt to better understand myself and the mental illness (though I am uncomfortable in labeling it as such) that I’ve been trying to deal with for a few years. Up till now, I’ve been doing… Continue reading No longer anonymous
It always comes back to this, doesn't it? Mascara stained sheets with arms reddened and scratched to bits. What started it off? My mind is lost. A tsunami of thoughts crushing the walls of stability that hold my mind at peace. I've refrained from sharing something so honest for a little while because I found… Continue reading The Tsunami
I feel sad for the Daffodills blooming in their box on a shelf, confined to the supermarket walls never to be delicately placed in a vase never to complete a table, or bring a smile to a face lightened by the spring sun. I wonder, do they feel? I feel sad for the birthday… Continue reading I feel sad (personification)
The tree stands on its own, branches high and wide, with a broad twisted trunk slightly leaning to the side. The tree has no friends around, no such nature of its type, only a few weeds litter the marshy ground, for it is far from ripe. So how did the tree find itself… Continue reading A new question in the New Forest
"Beach body ready in 6 weeks!" Scream the adverts attacking my eyes, with the image of a rippling torso displaying the ideal guy and for the girls? A flat stomach to compliment the abs displayed to the left and lets not forget the ladies' perfect chest. Why is one frame suitable for sand and sun?… Continue reading A good hypocrite but a bad poet
I have a very complicated relationship with summer. I love summer in many ways. However cliche it may sound, I love the sound of lawnmowers and the smell of freshly cut grass, I love the satisfaction of a cold drink on a hot day, I love the feeling of warm sand between your toes, I… Continue reading Summer lovin’? hatin’?
Musings on the National Express I wonder of the story Of the girl with the coffee And the man with the red curly hair, The flowers in hand Of a kindly old man And the jogger who runs without care. I wonder of the story Of the policeman strolling by And the boy with the ball… Continue reading I’m bad at poetry