What is it that you love now

My darling, my dear

There’s a fallen tree at rivers end

A bed of nightmares here

You’re a loyal mess thats always

A story of ten thousand words

And as truth is known by those not bound

Sunrise is sown by singing birds


What is it that you love now

My darling, my dear

As the snow comes down at rivers end

A bed of nightmares here

Your head is full of fertile soil

Is this a curse or is not?

You take to sinning anyways

Things left abandoned tend to rot

What is it that you love now

My darling, my dear

As the tree is lost at rivers end

A bed of nightmares here

Empty hurts the most once it is cured

Your sickness does not live to die

Only buried by the hopes of none

That is winters heavy sigh

What is it that you love now

My darling, my dear

As the wind howls deep at rivers end

A bed of nightmares here

So you hold the hands of hopeless words

You clamp them to your ears

But that doesn’t stop the howling, no

The howling is your tears


The tears you’ve yet to cry

Down lost at rivers end

To mourn the birds that sang at dawn

The mourn death, your new friend

So what is it that you love now?

Oh my darling, my dear

Pray your heart find solace in the sun

There’s a bed of nightmares here


Writers block

The last few weeks… or months… writing has been hard for me for no other reason than- it’s been hard. Nothing flows like it should, I can’t think of the right words. I have a story that I want to write, all of it pooled in my brain, but when I try to get it out the rivers turn dry and by the time the words hit the page they are weak and crumbly. (If only I were making shortbread cookies instead of trying to write).

The last few weeks, I’ll sit down at the computer and think: Ok. I’m going to write this now. I’m going to write this now, using these words, and it’s going to be amazing.

And then it’s not. And it’s discouraging.

Tonight, instead of sitting down with paper and pen and character planning like I told myself I was going to do, I sat in my window and watched fireflies. I didn’t look at my phone, I didn’t bring out a book, I didn’t listen to music. I just sat. Watched the little murmurs of light across the grass outside. And I realized… I hadn’t done that in a while. Which is odd, because stopping to marvel at nature is typically one of my greatest joys in life. It wasn’t until I realized that over two hours had passed before it dawned on me that that was what I needed.

I needed to do what I felt like I needed, deep down, instead of telling myself: this is what you’re going to do and I expect only the very best from you or else.

I’ve been demanding of myself writing which I have not given myself the time to ponder and let stew in my mind. I had given all the words and ideas a ridged set of rules instead of letting them write themselves on the page.

Cliche metaphor for the night: I should allow my writing to be more like fireflies. Moving whereever it likes to go, glowing gently in some places, flashing brightly in others.

And in some places- doing nothing particularly fantastic at all. Just being. Just traveling the page, exploring, feeling around. Being. Even if it’s not brilliant and up to highest standard.

Eventually it will flash.


All that’s gold is gone

With evening light

The sun it sets

The moon is white

Pale with frost

A puff of breath

Summers last smile

A flowers death

Sheets of gold shimmer

Like soft ripples on a lake

But when you touch them they’re lost

So sheets of gold will break

And slivers flutter to the earth

In silvers of the moon

All that’s gold is gone

And gone an hour too soon


It was all abstract, really. The way the words seemed to write themselves on to the page as though the quill itself held some great tale it was destined to tell. The ink splattered in a hasty mannor as he wrote, furiously -yet somehow, disconnected. He watched the words as they danced onto the page. Just lines and curves, set apart by hasty spaces, rushed steps. Just symbols. That’s all they were now, weren’t they? Symbols. That’s all anything was anymore.

He folded the letter and stuffed it angrily in an envolope. He stared at it then, feeling empty. The candles beside him on the desk flickered and the fire behind him crackled. His hand twitched.

He stood up slowly, and drew in a large breath. Then he turned and tossed the envolope into the hearth. The flames licked it up, greedily, the letter inside shrivelling, the thick ink dripping and sizzling at the bottom of the fire.

And it was all abstract, all a pointless ritual he had run only to throw the words into the fire. But suddenly, as he watched them burn, it was real to him. Suddenly all that had happened wasn’t just words, and he sunk to the floor before the hearth as a wave of emotion rolled over him and dragged his insides upon the gritty ocean floor. And then just as soon as it had come, it was gone. He was left empty, staring at the flames and the pile of ash that had once been… he didn’t know what. He really, didn’t, know.

He scooted a little closer to the fire, hoping that maybe the heat of the flames would warm the cold that the wake of emotion had left hallow inside him. Bare. A great casm that could not again be warm, even if he’d up and sat right in the white hot flame.


Come what may trod

Into the night

Through caverns carved into a soft cheek

Canyons and smooth rocks hollowed by the thoughts of day

That follow us into the night

What does our tossing and turning mean?

What does our messy hair leave to be said of our sleeping sanity?


Her hair was always messier than mine when she woke up.

Were her canyons filled with goblins? Did the moonlight glisten over damp snake skin, or crawl with spiders? Did their ugly legs of fear wrap around her dreaming mind?


But then again, her hair was longer than mine. Maybe it simply caught against her cotton sheets, and ruffled as she ran between the rocks. The only place we are free, the only place we are truly ever free to roam.

The art of crappy writing

I have currently been reading “Writing Down the Bones” by Natalie Goldberg. I seriously recommend it to all you die-hard writers out there. Or even you wanna-be’s. It’s worth the read.

Natalie talks a lot about “freeing the writer within”. Letting the words flow out of you. Shutting off your inner critic and just writing. This is a concept I try to capture, but I find that often when I sit down to write, I always expect the very best of myself. And once I’ve set the bar so high, none of the words seem to fit together quite right. I get as far as the first two paragraphs and then I get bored because my writing just isn’t as glamorous as I’d aimed for.

The more you write- and that is, just sit down and write, expecting nothing good from yourself- the more you free your mind and lose sight of the inner critic telling you it’s silly, or not good enough. The more you write, the better your writing will be.

Natalie suggests filling a notebook a month. And a lot of it, she says, will be trash. There will be times you’re writing just to write, to fill the pages with meaningless nothingness. But- she says- sometimes you will happen upon something gold, something that can be pulled out and transformed into a really great peice of writing.

I’ve decided that I am going to try and fill a composition book a month. Will it be easy? Heck no. I’m used to writing in spurts, randomly, when I feel the urge. But I think this idea of challenging myself to push past my inner critic and just write, write, write- is inspiring. Who knows what journey I will take within myself? What treasures are hidden in the caverns of my mind that I have never hiked to explore?

Imaginary images

A completely new world. Where the stars are carried in glasses of water, and entire galaxies glitter from oceans. Where one finds peace just by sitting beneath a tree. Where it always snows when it is cold, and always thunders when it rains. Mornings are crisp, and sunsets last as long as you like. Moss grows on the rocks, the trees, and the clouds. The birds sing on command, and the pettals of flowers grow flecked with gold.