Creative Writing, Poetry, The Fine Line

Tears of an insomniac

I cry through stinging eyes as I recount the days of life.
Blood shot,
And full of things that expand my head, my heart…
I sniff back the tears that are as cold as ice,
I sat myself here and I will not allow the self pity start.

Deal with the consequences you are the cause of them,
I say,
You said you want to be free of men,
But he, he wasn’t just a man. To you he was more than that.

I pour fourth this monologue night after night,
Releasing tears, tears of an insomniac.

Creative Writing, Poetry, The Fine Line

Too Late

He held me tight, but for too long,
Held me just right, it was so wrong.
The time was way off, he was too late, or maybe he was early. He was definitely late.

He is the man I long for in this moment. He was the man of my mind, the man of my dreams, the companion of my soul, the essence of my being. Maybe I’m being a little extreme but these are the thoughts he gives to me. I won’t have him though, I know that now.

And do you hear my heart? Can you hear it scream?
He is the love of my past, and my lover at last. But it won’t last. No, it won’t last.

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction


The string of 24 tiny light bulbs shook left and right and then left again. It had been doing this for hours but it was noticeable now because the lights had been turned on. A special request from the pair that sat under it. Pellets of rain battered the table top and bounced off into the mist of the incoming rain, rain that was being whipped around in the cold hard breath of nature.

She sat forward, on the edge of the bench, leaning over the table into him. He mirrored her, although he couldn’t lean too much, the bench on his side was loose and he was heavy. He held her wrists with a tight grip. She didn’t mind because she was used to it. He whispered something into her ear. She barely heard him over the waves of rain, but she heard enough. She flung her head back, her red lips parted as far as they could be and a jazz voice offered up some joy against the melencholy morning.

It was still dark, eclipse, they said it was. Her laughter called the attention of the staff inside the Sandria Coffee Shop. Then those who’d paid their custom that morning, and others who were around for the sake of temporary shelter, turned their attention to the two sitting outside.

The bench and table were damp and the two out on it were constantly wiping their foreheads and chins with various wet items. They squinted alot and raised their hands a lot, as if they were blocking the sun out of their eyes, which is bizarre because there was no sun – but they were having a perfectly normal conversation and enjoying it.

The onlookers, the in-lookers were victims of the thing some refer to as pathetic fallacy.  Too right it’s pathetic. They were victims not because of the torrential downpour but because they weren’t able to find a way to enjoy it. The common denominator was the inner rebuke shared by all of those inside. They were stuck.

They made phone calls explaining latenesses, and they sat a sulked otherwise, looking onwards out. Insanity maybe? Hippies maybe? Dying maybe? Thoughts flitted across the minds preoccupied with frustration. Why on earth are they out in the cold, in the dark, in the rain? What on earth is the meaning of all this rain lately? Rain! Rain.

The laughter had resided, but eyes were still attempting to focus on the silouettes beyond the misted glass walls.

She stood up for a second. She lit her cigarette and climbed over the bench. She said something that was hardly audible from the inside. I love this. I love him. Something like that, something about love. She moved slowly, breathing in the nicotine. She sat down next to him, the bench rocked. She was facing the shop, she was facing the envy. Then she spun around 180 degrees on her gluteus maximus and was side by side with her companion.

The eyes began to tear away from the silouettes, two backs weren’t so interesting. They’d turned their backs on the envy and on the pathetic pathetic phallacy. He had told her a little about his evening on Friday. It involved a  video about a pathetic orange cat, and they just both had to watch it.  If she didn’t laugh he’d leave. She didn’t care and told him to show her.

She laughed, well she giggled and not because it was funny but because the cat looked like Ed Sheeran. He stayed.

She took his phone and asked him if he had pinterest, he said no and she said he sucked. But she found the absolutely hilarious picture she wanted him to laugh at with her. Thanks Google. A dolls head attached to a chicken carcass. She was elated and couldn’t stop. He said its not funny, it’s sick.

“You’re crazy,” he said and snatched his phone back. “It’s good to be crazy,” she said. She grabbed his wrists and squeezed.

“I have to leave now,” she said, “because you didn’t laugh.” She stubbed out her cigarette on the dampened table top, shot up, hopped over the bench, grabbed his skate board and ran. “Deuces!”

He flung his legs over the bench, wiped his brow with a wet napkin and ran too.
It was fun because they had only just met that morning, and now anything could happen.

Creative Writing, The Fine Line

You or You?

I am stuck in a place between who I was, where I have been and who I may become, where I might go. I am questioning where I am at. Relentless in my endeavours, making terrible choices without a doubt. Simultaneously making the best decisions of my life. I embark upon a journey inspired by nostalgia, all the while I’m intrigued in the mysteries of what’s to come. Where I am is in a place where I wish I wasn’t, and doing nothing about it because it’s the best thing to do. That way wherever it ends up I know I did nothing to get me there. It just happened that way.

I’m afraid to lose sight of what was, because I loved it, I still do. But I want to know if I could love, just as much, the things I would have never known if I remained on the course I was on. I trusted previously, I was confident in the concrete. Now I am on dry sand, no substance and no foundation, I could sink in any minute. But even concrete can break.

I have to make a decision, I have to pick and choose. Will I say I do to you? Or will I say I do to you?

Creative Writing


There was a storm last night. I was sat with my back to the heater, and I pulled my sleeping bag up over my shoulders. A cold summers night, it only makes sense because I am in London. I wasn’t afraid of the thunder or the lightning nor did I despise the heavy rain. I’d been raised to believe that I should be grateful for the disastrous times, because it would make me appreciate the good. I appreciated the disaster; cherished it even because with it came joys and a great hope.

This storm though, it was different.  It brought something else out from within me. A grim bleakness I wasn’t aware of it but it had been there my whole life long.  I got to thinking, there is a storm going on all around me.

I came to London, because it was the mother of all wealth or so I was told. I found that it was also the most expensive city to live in. I gave up everything to be here. I lost everything when I got here. And for me there is nothing everywhere. But I can’t frown because I was brought up to believe in the silver lining.

I’ve been indoctrinated, because this is bad and this is inhumane and this is not the bright side. There is no bright side. I got to questioning, everything I was raised to believe. Because if they had been wrong about this, they had been wrong about everything. It was up to me to find the truth for my self. Their truth was no longer working for me.

Like, I said there was a storm last night this morning as the sun rises, I rise too. I yell to them thay they were wrong, I scoop up all of my nothingness and I get on the road.

Hello to the rest of my life. My life.

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Bedroom Mess

She liked having a tidied bedroom because it compensated for her untidied mind. When she came around from a night of violent passion and naked limbs, she woke him up and told him to leave.

She pressed her bruised thigh and sighed as he got up. She threw a bloodstained white shirt at his face.

She breathed slow and imagined a tidy room. It settled her. She took a shot. She began to pick up and put away and sweep and tie and throw out all of yesterday’s memories. He’d left and she was alone, in the midst of her thoughts.

Creative Writing, Poetry, The Fine Line

Minds and Hearts

We wrote a list of our woes
The content of our minds and hearts
We infused our self with nature
Embracing the natural
We set the paper on fire
Watched the flames
And inevitably inhaled the fumes.

It was choking to the body
It was also freeing to the soul
It was expanding to the mind and heart
It was unacceptable to the society
But it was funny to them and to us.

We sat and swelled with frustrations
We sat and we said things
We sat and sailed into ourselves
The content of our minds and hearts.