Writer, researcher, music lover, cancer survivor with CMMRD ("double" Lynch syndrome)

Tag: spilled ink (Page 1 of 9)

my mother says I am impressive.

my mother says I am impressive.
what does that mean?
I yo-yo between
the ridiculousness of her words
and the incredulity
that she would say something
that she didn’t believe, therefore
it must surely be true.
my mother says I am impressive.
parents are biased.
parents see what they want to see.
parents are wrong sometimes.
but sometimes I still believe her
and want to thank her
for relieving my guilt with her praise.
my mother says I am impressive.

Written on Friday 1st
January, 2016 at 21:50

Stray Boy

the wheelchair,
the cobbled street.
happy because –
No reasons
to be seen.
a stray boy
interacting with
filthy hair,
head slumped low
but bobbing with
every guffaw.
Small town poverty,
invisible life.
a semi-stoned
shadow lurching
from side to
side in the


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.


Awaiting acutely,
aching and awake –
far too awake, alert,
I wait
for days.
Artificial acrobatics, an
armful of blood
anxiety escalated,
awaiting alleviation.
After Thursday,
agitation quietened,
quickly quelled,
dispelled until next time,
assessments and appointments,
awaiting a verdict again –

all that is lost

Hopeless, heaving, havoc-
wreaking, hateful, half-time
happenings, so harrowing, have you
any idea the hope that is lost,
the ways I have lost, so many ways
I was hoping to hop, to trot and
to heave my belongings, my half of
this world as it rots, the happiness
happening but not, the haste in
which my direction changes with the
wind, a hurricane forming in the
epicentre of hours of homecoming,
if only I could. If only home hadn’t
been lost. But hoping hasn’t made
anything happen, only the
actions of the whirlwind, the
heaviest of houses heaving
their bodies down, and I was
a house, I was a heart that had no
reason to hope, just a haze, a happy
helpful haze, now history, now
hungry, hurt, homeless, hopeless.
If only I could come home to my better
self, my halting, healthy, half-
baked, wisdomless self. If
only I could come home to all that is
lost, all that I lost.

Free Time

What am I doing with that look on my face?
That pained expression that’s so hard to erase.
What am I doing with this armful of feelings?
Trying to put them down and decipher the meanings.
What am I doing with this life all a-jumble?
Watching it rumbling past with a grumble.

I don’t want to progress, I just want to move backwards –
There’s no meaning in PPC and AdWords.
My soul is attached to a man with a guitar
who pours out his feelings, leaves my mouth ajar
because he’s plucked my thoughts right out of my brain
and now I don’t think, just hear his soaring refrain.

Most of the time we have is spoken for
I want to recycle old hours, relive them once more
and contemplate the minutes that make up my days,
rewind to my younger, more naïve ways,
go back to being like a carefree pup
and be granted permission to stop growing up.

But that just can’t happen, so what do I do?
Make the most of my free time when I’m with you,
daydream about leaving the old nine-to-five
and just make the most of being here and alive.

Diamonds in the Asphalt

I remember lying on my belly
in the playground at six years old,
grazed elbows and broken fingernails,
trying to pick glistening stones
out of their asphalt prison
because I thought they were diamonds.

There are a billion stars under our
feet, twinkling in their icy garb,
and so many people don’t notice them.
These days they are all I want to see.

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