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While you were raging
While you were ragingThe world moved onThe ones who struggleAre the ones who scornWho find comfort in your pityTo honour their ownWho pacify your regretsTo deflect from their own While you were ragingYour world moved onAs you trusted the pitifulYou discarded your homeInevitable was the outcomeOf being aloneWhat you sought to avoidBecame your new home…
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Getting it wrong
Life has never been simple, and only threatens to become more complicated with each day that passes. Sometimes I flirt with the idea that perhaps I was destined to struggle with so much so that I can learn the lessons that need to be learnt to share them with others. But my gut says that…
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Who defines your behaviour?
Understanding can only result from sincere interest in what someone is going through. When we try to advise without first seeking to understand, we’re judging, rather than supporting. We’re dictating, rather than uplifting. Doing for others what you would have done unto you is never more true than in that moment when you find someone…
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To me… From me…
This may seem vain, but I’ve been wanting to do this in my copy of my first book since I first published it. And today, sitting and reading through it to remind myself of some of that advice that I give others but don’t use, it felt like the right time to finally acknowledge me.…
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A brain dump
The obstinacy with which I once wrote, escapes me lately. It was an obstinacy borne from the absence of expectation. Self-awareness is easily distracted by familiarity that we may share with others. In a moment of inclusion after a lifetime of isolation, the self is quickly lost. Re-finding that which was lost becomes an arduous…
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My echo chamber
For what feels like an eternity, I’ve been grappling with whether I have anything of substance to share beyond my first novel. Will it be an indulgent rant of self-pity, or will it honour the human struggle? Am I invested in it the way I was with the first novel? Or is the tedious repetition…
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Forgotten bones
Sullen heart Tainted soul Exhausted spirit Far from home A journey long A stranger lone Broken promises Forgotten bones Cryptic poetry from a cryptic soul For each to take What echoes with their own… Photo credit : Adobe Stock #authorsofinstagram #poetry #spilledink
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That empty bench…
The saddest scene for me has always been the abandoned park bench. It echoes with profound intensity the pervasive isolation that too many experience, but too few reveal. There is a shame that is carried upon the broken wings of abandonment that anchors us in that space between wanting to create beauty in this world,…