Tim Winton’s Breath is the kind of book that challenges your thinking about what it means to be a writer. Winton’s prose flows like poetry, with immaculate meter and dialectal mastery. Breath makes me ashamed to say I’m a writer, … Continue reading Breath. A book review.
Shut me down, flip that switch. Turn out my lights and hear me Breathe my final maudlin death rattle. You have such a way with words, you kill me every time. Every. Time. Continue reading Flip That Switch. A poem.
She’s seated before a window, sun highlighting shiny diamonds in her hair. Her fingers are flamingoes on her smart phone, a wily dance sped up to double speed, of muscle memory and familiar keys. Lips as full as pillows that I long to cushion with my own, and the dress she wears hugs contours of which I am so painfully aware. Her eyes escape to velvet shores and silken sheets upon the beach, and I must look away too soon, lest she see me here. Scant feet separate us and small talk fills the space between, all luscious notes and … Continue reading Window. A poem.
Please, talk to me, even if my foot is lodged constantly in my mouth. Your voice soothes my butterfly heart and lifts me to a higher plane on which I soar. Continue reading Talk To Me. A poem.
The flame burns like phosphor, ignited and soaring by degrees: The passion, the anger (and the shame). The flame, super luminal intensity, burns me up, turns me ashen. (For how long will I shine before the all too brief spark burns low and fades? How long before the darkness encroaches again?) The flame wakes me from listlessness, brings me to back to life, again and again. Light me up, turn me on, and never fade away. Continue reading The Flame. A poem.
Acquiesce to the night’s probing fingers, an invitation given without betrayal. Shake and stutter in these jealous hills and vales. Writhe in a cave of dream-inspired torment, until dawn awakes the feeble sleeper and time restarts; a clock has no end. Continue reading Acquiesce. A poem.
Would that all these angry thoughts could energise me to action, rather than distraction. These angry thoughts, hiding fears and tears Everlasting. Continue reading Angry Thoughts. A poem.
I wander down life’s corridor. Testing doors: I open, close. But through this hall I walk alone, the only path I’ve ever known. “Save my soul,” I cry tonight. Take my hand, hold me tight, help me find the door that’s right. Kill this pain and bring me back to life. Continue reading Corridor. A poem.
(I lay awake.) I’ve been hit by a train, and my mental innards lay strewn over miles of track. Don’t think of her, because that way lies endless insomniac hours, of wondering how and why she’s run me down again; ploughing into my station, the end of the line. I am a train wreck, crushed and bent, overwrought and steaming. A less than urban tragedy, built on years of trauma and recovery, and a long time need: to be loved and freed from these rails. Continue reading Train Wreck. A poem.
There once was an optimist Who tripped, fell Lost his wife Respectability His whole life For some reason lost his optimism as well He picked himself up Dusted himself off Set about finding a new life But it wasn’t easy So much was tied up In his head and heart It wasn’t easy to forget the strife Three years later And the optimist returned In drabs and dribs A piece at a time A patchwork quilt Of emotion and anxiety There once was an optimist Who got up, looked around For a wife Respectability And a life Dim as a … Continue reading The Optimist’s Trial. A poem.
Stick to the path Safer there? Than thickets and brush Hidden from prying eyes That seek to Rend and blind Seek the safer path that winds on Lingering like dawn’s afterglow The safer path? Continue reading Safer Path? A poem.
I thought I was free of anger But it rages there! inside! Everyday Over every little betrayal Surrounded by tears That lurk just behind the veil Release me from hurt And leave me be For I have lost myself And have no compass to find my … Continue reading (No) Compass. A poem.
Every time I see her The briefest moment fleeting My time with her is limited To a nondescript meeting It takes less than a minute To make the magic pitch To appeal to better nature Before regret becomes an itch But then the meeting’s ended No optioned heart’s desire For two souls to be blended Dream buried in the mire One thing appears so obvious And this I’m certain of I’m really not a salesman I’m just in (unrequited) love Continue reading The Pitch. A poem.
Thanks so much to everyone who has visited, commented and enjoyed or hated my blog! I’ve reached 10000 views. Yay! I started this blog on 9th January 2017 as a way to encourage my writing, and to be a catharsis for my mental health issues. Over that time I’ve posted almost every day, and I’m still loving it. So thank you all, once again. And if you’re reading this for the first time, please check out the menu above, click on a category, and enjoy 🙂 Cheers Steve 🙂 Continue reading 10 000 views!
Sometimes life kicks us hard. Then it kicks us even harder. While life is kicking us we have to learn to get up and either get out of the way or let that boot keep cracking our ribs.
That’s not actually what this post is about, but maybe it caught your attention. If so, please read my post about purpose and humility. And stupidity. You might even enjoy it 🙂 Continue reading A Question of Purpose
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