Imposter

The pages of drafts and edits could decorate my walls,

each finished book a paperweight, a door stop,

decoration for the shelves

and hideaway for the mind after a long day.

Above all, evidence.

 

Surely I can’t dispute clear fact?

 

The voice of blank bears down on me,

drawing up every negative:

comments, remarks, comparisons,

the scattered and scribbled notes in my journal,

scratched out because they weren’t good enough.

 

Weren’t good enough. Weren’t good enough.

 

Do I prove it right? Or plug my ears,

gather my notes and map them into sense

just like I did last time?

Ongoing Green

He stepped into the suit and it never left.

Carved its mark into his life,

coloured his hair, his words, his dreams.

And when the seams became unstitched,

he spent all his effort patching them over,

making the suit new for future eyes and old.

The passion keeps him going, he drinks in its hold.

Splinters

The splinters of the branch slid into my fingers

as it snapped at the force of my hand as I tumbled into the tree.

Blood beaded down the bark and caught on the tip of a serrated leaf.

The red mirror showed

how little I’d changed

despite being shoved out of line, convinced my place was over here, not there.

My hair was ruffled, but still mine.

My clothes were covered in cobwebs and lichen, but still mine.

My eyes were wet and open, but still mine.

The blood dripped from the leaf and was instantly swallowed by the soil.

I stood up.

Empty house

The stairs creak as she walks up the spine of the house,

feels the wild thing tremble

at her human touch. A foreign sensation

but nostalgic. A purr emanates from the fireplace

as it’s stroked into life.

Its belly is warm, fed

after so many years of being starved.

1000 Posts!

So WordPress has just informed me that I’ve managed to publish a thousand posts since I started this little blog in February 2017. Admittedly, I have tried to post every day, so that shouldn’t really come as a surprise, but it was still a strong reminder of how much writing I actually do.

It also made me realise that writing every day, as popular writing guides suggest writers do, doesn’t mean slogging through to build up word counts for big projects. It actually means write something every day. So it could be the draft of a new poem, which apparently is what most of this blog consists of (originally, it was supposed to be inspirational writing advice, but then I realised I couldn’t really give much advice while I was still learning myself – though I did manage a few good posts on it), or the outline of a book. Maybe even my thoughts for the day or a two minute free write. All of it keeps my brain creative, so though it doesn’t feel like I’ve done much writing, it all helps in the long run.

At the moment, I’ve got a lot of WIPs that need editing, so I’m going to drop my posts here down to once a week so I can focus on those works and any other new projects I end up with. It’ll also take away the unnecessary pressure I’ve put myself under to keep these posts regular, and hopefully reinstate that ‘less is more’ idea. But even if I don’t post everyday, I’ll still be writing in one form or another to keep that creativity I treasure going strong.

So, until later!

P.S. You may have noticed the cover of my book, The Origin Stone, has changed in the banner I use. My publisher decided it was time for a redesign, and I loved their idea, so we went with it. I believe The Origin Stone is also free on Kindle at the moment, so if you’ve been interested for a while, now’s the time to pick up a copy!

Secret

It’s been planted for a while, didn’t you know?

Kept under your nose but unscented,

disguised by other flowers.

I left it there to grow,

hoping you wouldn’t think it was a weed and pluck it out

before it had chance to fully show.

Misinterpretation

The day is planned.

Until it’s not. Shaken by a few words

that shift what was stated before

and the fire

from this upending

is scorching my actions,

I’m not in control of myself anymore.

It’s not always winter

I take the knife and carve away a slither.

The exposed skin reddens at the touch of cold air

and regrows its protective casing.

I try again, carving away another slice,

yet still the ice seeps in and forces retreat.

Moons change and the casing grows thin,

I cannot depend on it for support much longer.

The crushing air outside is still strong…but wait!

Is that a warm spot approaching in the distance?

I can last just a little longer. A fraction more.

I reach out

and it takes me with it.

The memory of warmth becomes real,

I shed my casing without worry.

Hush now. Speak up.

The shadows hide on my tongue,

lacing cobwebs in my throat that catch my words

and send up their remains, broken, lost

until the furnace sparks below and churns out rapid fire interest.

Snap Dragons

They snarl, hackles raised at the thought of disrupting their nest.

No words can ease their discontent,

even from their own kin.

Order must be kept,

no rules bent, all traditions adhered too,

though hurt has entered the childling’s heart

and it must suffer through.