Creative Writing, Poetry


This is the moment
The unuttered falls down
The revelation of a thing so pain ridden
Softly descending the skin of my face
Slowly whispering a prayer to the maker
It rolls over my lips and shuts me up
I can’t speak
I wipe it away with hands full of blame
Then offer the tear up and ask for healing.

For you and for me, healing.


Fragments (my musings)

I find it very interesting how one thing can have many interpretations. How a work of art, a performance or even a fact can be shaped and moulded inside different minds in various way, is a complex matter.  Nevertheless it is complexity in all of its beauty, because after all, we are all unique.

Unique in the way we perceive things, unique in the way we execute them. We are unique in the things we believe and unique is the ways in which we came to believe those things.

The things is, it is terribly intriguing how God created us, shaped us, painted us because for the time being we will not know anymore than this.

This is a little bit of the bigger picture, my interpretation, you have a fragment, and she has a fragment and he has a fragment, we all do.

Creative Writing

Watching Drunk People Drink

Heads thrown back, lips wrapped around the neck of a green, glass container. The security guard attempts to contain them in the barriers of the ‘smoking area’ but it does not work. They are spilling out all over the street.


The swaying man whose conversation had just been cut short, curtoisy of gravity and drunken clumsiness, swears. He keels over at the speed of light, scoops up his love with a sober sort of competency.  He swears again. Shit. His once sleek scratch free screen is now a hundred tiny pieces. He talks into the phone telling it of his upset. Sharing the drears of the moment. He swears again. His face is cut, a tear of  blood rolls down his cheek.

Over in the corner is another religiousless being. Her face flat on the cold brick wall. When she came out she was accompanied by two of her gals. They had their smoke and they got chatted up a little. She didn’t realised any of it her minds dancing through closed eyelids out onto the street. Sound mean nothing to her. It was cold, hat scarf and gloves cold, but she wore a mini skirt and a leotard. The skin on her arms were scratched and pickled. That mean nothing to her. She was content to stand on shaking legs, faced pressed into the brick. She would regret it in the morning, when she would wake up for church unable to explain away the evidence of her intoxicated transgressions.

There was a girl with unicorn hair, who had a brunt tye friend. They wore similar clothes, as a matter of fact all the girls did bar two. Mini skirt leotard or some other skin tight top and chunky ankle boots. The unicorn girl fell backwards and forwards off of the arm of her male companion. For a second she would lean to far forward and her head would be level with his chest then she would realise and lean too far back aligning her head with the on coming bus pull into the bus stop. Had it not been for the man who had the blood tear rolling down his face, she would have got hit by the bus and probably died. He saved her by standing in the middle of the ‘bus stop’ sign printed on the road, which usual presence forced the driver to break early, releasing the unicorn girl from the clutches of death.

The brunette friend was glazed. It is possibly she had done more than drinking. She appeared to have noticed this near tragic incident and made not an inch of effort to stop it. And fair play to her, her little chubby unicorn friend somehow managed to get the attention of of the boys, while she stood tall above them all in all her artificial height. Looking sullenly down on it all.

Another girl on the other side of barriers that the security man, once again attempted to line up to fit in with their rental floor space allowence, got a hole in her mini skirt. A short lad who was extremely loud, fast and jumpy was smoking. He lowered his had for a talk break, as he spoke about some foolishness his cigarette burned her bum. She didn’t feel it. She was stroking her damp hand along someone’s cheek and up his nose. He didn’t stop her, although he didn’t know where her hands had been and from the feel of their dampness he imagined she has pissed all over them. He grabbed her neck and she kissed him. Then the Spanish began to sing some sort of anthem.

Lights come on, a director walks out and tells them they did perfect. Besides the guy who needed to sort out his cheek and the blood they were all free to go home.  The camera man says he’s got rush, good night. And a bald, tall Asian princess calls a list of people and hands them their call sheets.

The extras would no longer be of any use.

The Fine Line

From My Mind

You screamed, “let me go,” from my lips.
You loved, from my heart, the ease life would offer to you without me. You imagined, the painlessness of it all in my mind.

Then you told me, from your own lips I was delusional and you meant it with all your heart. From the same heart that loved me. That loves me? You thought about a futute with me, you were ecstatic. It was all that was on your mind. It filled your mind, it filled your heart, it fell from your lips.

I heard you.
I didn’t listen.
I’m sorry.