The Brown Eyed Dreamer

'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' William Wordsworth


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The Shortest, Sharpest Lies

‘That’s fine.’ ‘We’re fine.’ ‘I’m fine.’
Two short words slip off the tongue.
A feeble excuse, a weak shield
Fighting off a barrage of questions,
Blocking off a wave of sympathy,
Keeping out the quiet thoughts
That tell us we’re simply hiding.

‘That’s fine.’ ‘We’re fine.’ ‘I’m fine.’
Two short words that spring to mind.
A shady alibi, a little white lie
Whispering into the dark at night,
Chanting into the light of day,
Ignoring the quiet thoughts that know
That we’re not fine at all.

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Old Ways

She’s disappearing again,
I see her cave into her shadow like before.
Sister pretends to understand but
Loses patience in the silence,
Mum and dad speak, but never listen
To hear the whimpers underneath.
But brother strains to find the sound and
Hears it crying from the dark;
He knows, he knows,
But he’ll never say
Until it is too late.


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Bridge

A walk home through the park
Where darkness swallows every stride,
Your hand in mine because you know I get afraid.
Took me to the bridge
To hold me tight and kiss me slowly,
When you stop to ask that lingering question.
‘Is it perfect for you too?’

Yes, the breeze whispers through branches,
Yes, the river murmurs underneath,
But still mouth forms no words.
Look straight into wide, inquisitive eyes,
Nod profusely, please let that be enough,
I swear, I swear more than anything,
It’s perfect for me too.


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Block.

I miss writing. It used to be that a pencil never left my hand, that ideas always fled into my head. I’d write whenever I could find time, and whenever I didn’t really have time too. Characters, plots, journeys and worlds would flood from my mind and spill onto paper, filling page after page of the cheap notebooks I bought from the store. I loved building a  story until it almost become a world around me, with most nights spent scribbling down everything I could think of until I could get my characters to the end of their adventure. I miss the thrill of new ideas, the hours spent in the corners of libraries and cafés planning and the satisfaction of finishing.

These days, there’s not enough time, not enough energy. School builds walls around my daydreams, reminding me of my responsibility to do well, of the importance of my future, while all the time my mind scurries like a bird trapped in a cage, willing to escape from studying for subjects I care nothing for. And as all this is happening, a greater wall looms above, dark and menacing, blocking any idea from coming to me. I feel trapped, bored, yet too exhausted to make a change.

But I swear, this drift is only temporary, and I will be back. A mind cannot stay trapped forever, and soon the shackles of exams will be broken and I’ll be free to spend hours filling pages with every trace of my thoughts. Soon I can go back to the one thing I love most. And when I get back, maybe the sparks will ignite and ideas will burst back into life, and I can carry on as before; a dreamer.

That’s all I can hope for, for now.