Is It Just Me?

Is It Just Me?
That has all these morbid thoughts?
Whenever something brings a smile
It’s all very bittersweet of sorts
Happiness with me, only lasts a while

Is It Just Me?
That thinks about what I will say
At your funeral, when you’re gone?
My imagination gets carried away
As your eulogy goes on and on

Is It Just Me?
That sometimes has to stop talking
So I don’t ask something to try
For a display of emotion, however shocking
Like “how will you feel when I die?”

Is It Just Me?
That believes there’s nothing wrong
With discussing death, pain and torment
No such thing as weak or strong
The end of life, no one can prevent


Why Limit Yourself?

I don’t understand why people write with such long and pretentious words, like they’ve used a thesaurus on every sentence. Don’t they realise that all they’re doing is limiting their own audience? Why write only for people that are “intellectual”? True talent has nothing to do with the complexity of the language you use.

If you can touch a university professor and a factory worker simultaneously, then you have talent.

Very Inspiring Blogger Award


Once again, I’d actually never heard of this award until Hafsa Baba nominated me for it, but I’m still very pleased! It’s amazing to be so appreciated so early on in my blogging adventure! Thank you so much Hafsa. From the research I did, I found this –

It is an award for a fellow blogger that you find inspiring, or brings inspiration to those who read their work.

It had some rules too which go as follows:

Display the Award Certificate on your website
Announce your win with a post and link to whoever presented your award
Present the award to deserving bloggers
Drop them a comment to tip them off after you’ve linked them in the post
Post 7 interesting things about yourself.

So these are the bloggers that I’d like to give this award to. They all either write inspirational pieces of prose and poetry, give me ideas and something to think about or write things that you just can’t help reading. I’d recommend all of their blogs.

Exploring Life As A Mom

No Talent For Certainty

Embrace The Crazy


Tragic Escape

Now for the “7 interesting things” about me, which incase you actually follow all my posts, you’ll notice are the same 7 things from my last award nomination…but come on, I’m really not that much of an interesting person!

1. I’m sure this is obvious from my posts recently, but I’m currently 14 weeks 6 days pregnant. It’s my first child. I was told I couldn’t have children, so when I saw the little blue plus sign on the pregnancy test it was a little bit of a shock! But it’s all very exciting and although it caused problems between me and my partner at first, we’re now closer than ever.

2. I’m a masochist.

3. I’m actually a very lonely person. I’ve never been a natural at making friends or talking to people I don’t know, it always takes quite a long time for me to feel comfortable around someone. I have my family, my boyfriend, one or two friends that I never see anymore, and everyone else I speak to is online. It’s much easier online, don’t you think?

4. I think that deep down I am a bad person. People disagree, obviously, but I have always felt that if I was truly open with myself, even I would be surprised with what I’m capable of.

5. I’m more than a little obsessed with William Shakespeare. I mean not only is he the most famous play-write in the world, as well as poet, he is also the most intriguing person! There’s very little anyone actually knows about him, obviously keeping documents in those days wasn’t high on the agenda and a lot of what we assume his life was like is based on theory and educated guesses. I love all of his works and anything about him.

6. I hate groups of people, but I also hate being alone.

7. None of my writing is ever good enough for me, but a friend told me I should still post it, as my standards are too high for anyone to achieve.

So that’s that, I’ve commented on the 5 blogs that I’ve awarded this to, and it’s now up to them whether they want to accept or not. But either way, they all deserve it.


Centuries Late

I was born in the wrong era.
All this concrete
just isn’t meant for me
I dream of simplicity
writing with a feathered quill
dipped in ink
thick yellowing parchment
in a world of possibilities
I watch television and movies
set in the past
a different time
a different century
a different life
I’d wake with the sun
and dress in lace and frills
intricate corsets
everything left to the imagination
I’d take a mans hand
as I step
into a carriage
pulled by impatient horses
tossing their heads
and I would hide my face
from streetwalkers
with a white fan
clutched in slender fingers
I’d spend my nights
in deep conversations
and just feel impassioned.
Modern life with it’s
unforgiving emptiness
and laziness
isn’t where I belong.


When I sit with him
on his leather couch
television droning
in the background
and he reads from an old book
beautiful poetry
that warms my heart
and moves my soul
I can close my eyes
and just listen
there is nothing else
only me
with him
and words
I think to myself
perhaps it’s not the era
that I crave
perhaps it’s just the company
I keep

With him, I belong.

So You Want To Be A Writer?

A poem by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

I’m not a fan of the analysis of poetry. I don’t believe in picking poems apart to find meaning or hidden truths. That’s why I love Charles Bukowski. If you don’t instantly get an understanding of his poetry when you first read it, there’s something wrong with you. Or maybe you’re just not a literary being.

On Saturday my boyfriend picked a book off his shelf and opened it quickly to a page, turned the book and pushed it into my hands “read this one, you’ll like it.” He was right, of course, he always is (don’t tell him I said that…). It’s such a true poem though, from such a natural talent. I adore it, even if when I initially read it I believed myself to be one of those people who shouldn’t write. But re-reading it “if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you, then wait patiently” stuck with me. If you read my blog regularly you’ll notice I have days of constant posts and days with none. I only write when not writing is an impossibility. I don’t write when I have to think about what to write for more than a few minutes.

Writing should be natural, not forced.

Jinx War

Me: Whose Steve Buschemi? 1:12pm

Him: He’s the guy from Con Air with the big eyes you mentioned yesterday 1:12pm

Me: Aw he’s awesome 1:13pm

Him: Awesome actor 1:13pm

Him: Jinx 1:13pm

Me: I’ll get you a coke next time 1:13pm

Him: Now you can’t talk until you buy my a coke 1:13pm

Me: Lmao 1:13pm

Him: Jinx 1:13pm

Me: No! Fuck off with beating me to jinx 1:14pm

Him: Now you can’t move at all 1:14pm

Me: Can’t stop me. Ha. 1:14pm

Him: Blood can’t pump, cells can’t grow. Everything must freeze in time. Until you buy me 2 cokes with zero movement. Good luck 1:15pm

Me: Lol, you’re making up rules now. Cheat. 1:15pm

Him: You’re just ignoring them 1:15pm

Me: I’m too cool for rules. Too powerful. Too charismatic. Too perfect 1:16pm

Him: If you’d have stopped talking when the rules said so there would never be a double jinx and there is no rule for double jinx. So I have to invent no movement atop no talking. Even though you’re still doing both 1:16pm

Me: You don’t get to invent the double jinx rule. You have to write to the jinx organisation for guidance. And because it’s me, and I’m fucking awesome, they’ll change everything and make you buy me cokes for the rest of your life. To pay back for having the ordasity to even attempt to jinx perfection. 1:17pm

Him: I’m a fucking pioneer. And someone might write in at the same time, and then the jinx committee has me on file as being locked in jinx with a fellow jinxer 1:17pm

Me: You’re delusional, boy 1:18pm

Him: I’m not willing to risk their wrath. I’ll just invent shit and they can follow on when they catch up with me 1:18pm

Me: Inventing shit without their approval will bring forth their wrath. Idiot. 1:19pm

Him: 2 cokes please 1:19pm

Me: I accept the original jinx, and will provide the coke for that. The second was a disgustingly made up rule and therefore is meaningless to me, so I will take away one coke. Henceforth, you shall receive zero cokes. Not even coca cola zero. You have permission to laugh at my incredible joke 1:20pm

Him: They won’t hear of my double jinx and think he deserves wrath, they will hear of it over the tannoy systems at HQ and everyone in the building will say in unison “this motherfuckers going to be president one day” and they will all, every single one of them, be locked in a huge jinx pile up. With sentences cut in half and everything. Brutally. And although no one can speak to say it, they will all know the name of the one man capable of sorting such a situation and when my phone rings and no one on the other side of the phone says a word I will know it is my time to rise! 1:25pm

I fucking love this man.

Free to Write

He said to me “I’ll take all the credit for making you bitter and angry enough to write”

I replied that he was my main subject
Along with our little unborn baby
It’s so satisfying to be able to direct
My thoughts and feelings away
Whilst knowing that he will not read
Any of the things I’ve written
And I am completely free to proceed
Without the fear of being bitten
I told him I’m glad he doesn’t share
Any of his writings or poetry
As I couldn’t pretend that I don’t care
About anything he says about me

He said to me “I might make one actually. A blog. I can write poems about a really nice girl I know and others about this total nightmare, and you’ll be all ‘who’s this other person?’ But they’ll both be you”

Isn’t he just hilarious.
I think not.

How can I be a mother?

How can I take care of you
When I can’t even take care of myself?

How can I make you safe
When I always feel like I’m danger?

How can I make you strong
When I constantly feel so weak?

How can I make you brave
When I have always lived being scared?

How can I make you sure
When I am always clouded in doubt?

How will I choose what’s right
When I’ve always seemed to be wrong?

How can I be a mother
When I’m not even sure I’m human?

Question One – Who is your favourite poet?

Carol Ann Duffy

Now this might surprise you, as she’s not what people would class as edgy or even unique. She exclusively writes poetry for British students to study at GCSE and A Levels. Her poetry is very structured and proper. Don’t get me wrong, I love poets that are individual and different, people that bring something new to the world of literature, but nevertheless she is my favourite.

Perhaps it’s because I was studying her work for GCSE English Literature and Language, when I was 15/16. She was the first person that made me want to write. And a lot of my work has been inspired by hers. She wrote a few poems in reference to books, stories and people, but from the perspective of different characters or loved ones. My favourites being Havisham, based on the character from Great Expectations, and Anne Hathaway, a sonnet as if she’d written it after Shakespeare’s death. Both are amazing.

My poems inspired by Carol Ann Duffy

Be My Adair – written from the point of view of Lanore, a character from The Taker by Alma Katsu.

My Shakespeare – a dedication to the Bard, in both his and my words.

Sonnet #6 The Sonnet of Sonnets – a sonnet created from lines from Shakespeare’s sonnets.

Hell Hath No Fury – written from the point of view of Titania, the fairy queen from A Midsummer Nights Dream.

This is my favourite Duffy poem, as mentioned before…

Anne Hathaway

‘Item I gyve unto my wief my second best bed…’
(from Shakespeare’s will)

The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, cliff-tops, seas
where he would dive for pearls. My lover’s words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights I dreamed he’d written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer’s hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love –
I hold him in the casket of my widow’s head
as he held me upon that next best bed.

Carol Ann Duffy
From New Selected Poems 1984-2004 (Picador, 2004). Originally published in The World’s Wife (Macmillan, 1999).

Steve the Suicidal Slug


There was once a slug
His name was Steve
He was not a bug
That could even perceive
What it’s like to hug
Only knows how to grieve

He decided being alive
Just wasn’t for him
So he took a drive
On a bit of a whim
Got to the cafe at five
When the sky was dim

He found on a table
A shaker of salt
Be he was unable
To lift up the vault
And like a fable
It wasn’t his fault

So he slithered away
Out of the door
The sky wasn’t grey
Or even grim anymore
He was glad that today
He wanted death no more

But he heard a sound
Made him feel like crying
And he turned around
To see the salt flying
Covering the ground
Until he was dying

Dissolving into a puddle
On the busy street
His mind was a muddle
Thinking quite a feat
He just wanted a cuddle
Really rather sweet