Sam Alexandra Rose

Author: writersamr

  • Straightening out 10 assumptions* people make about me because I’m quiet, none of which are true

    I’m not shy

    I don’t have low confidence

    I don’t prefer quiet environments

    I am usually quite happy and cheerful

    I don’t dislike you (probably)

    I’m not bored (probably)

    I’m not mysterious or thinking deep thoughts

    I don’t need you to speak up for me or talk to other people for me

    I don’t need you to help me to be louder or to invite me to talk

    Calling me quiet like it’s a bad thing (or doing any of these) does make me want to hit you

    *emphasis on the ASS

    Add your own to this list in the comments!

  • How has cancer changed people’s perceptions of you?

    What do brave cancer patients/survivors do that cancer patients/survivors who aren’t brave don’t do?

    What do strong cancer patients/survivors do that cancer
    patients/survivors who aren’t strong don’t do?

    (more…)

  • searching

    searching for someone
    who gives a fuck and
    isn’t afraid to say so:
    sometimes they are
    closer than you think,
    even if they are further
    away than others you
    had previously pinned
    your hopes on.

  • The Colour of Cancer

    What colour is cancer?
    Not the colour of cheerful ribbons.
    Not the pink of awareness,
    or fun-run t-shirts, or a
    decorative brooch.

    The colour of cancer is blood red to me,
    the kind of red that makes my
    stomach flip over.
    Red trespassing where it isn’t
    supposed to be. The white walls
    of the disinfected hospital.
    The white of my mother’s tissue.
    The pastel pattern of a gaping surgical gown.
    The colour of a sleepless night, of shadows
    morphing into hallucinations.
    The blinding light of sunshine intruding
    through curtains opened at 8am sharp.
    The deep shining orange-red of
    my insides. The dark green of
    bile. The non-colour of cardboard
    sick bowls and bed pans.
    The colour of thick, opaque days
    I couldn’t see past. The colours I see now
    when I turn around.
    Crumbling brown soil on my brother’s grave.
    The darkest thoughts of my own resting place.
    The ugliest palette.

  • Creeping

    cunning copper creeping,
    auburn shadows stalking leaves
    like urban predators –
    grasping and smothering
    them with tentacles, tangling
    emerald with marigold,
    pine and pear with honey,
    mustard with pumpkin,
    meshing garnet with caramel
    and dusky cinnamon
    with avocado.
    raw, rustic rainbow.
    leaves flush from green to gold,
    faces glistening as they are pulled
    from summer’s artichoke-hold.

  • happy thoughts

    be selective with your thoughts
    let only the helpful ones in,
    let only the relevant ones in –
    the now-thoughts,
    the kind thoughts,
    thoughts that you would
    pluck out of your brain and place
    inside the brain of your best friend.

  • Awaiting

    Awaiting acutely,
    aching and awake –
    far too awake, alert,
    I wait
    for days.
    Artificial acrobatics, an
    armful of blood
    gone
    anxiety escalated,
    awaiting alleviation.
    After Thursday,
    agitation quietened,
    quickly quelled,
    dispelled until next time,
    assessments and appointments,
    awaiting a verdict again –
    not-so-merry-go-round.

  • Deaf

    Young teenagers
    are deaf
    to the caring, clumsy racket
    terrorising me.
    Listening upright
    on the pillows
    I dare hurt myself
    more.

  • out, out

    Out, out

    our routine sparking art

  • plan for