The Brown Eyed Dreamer

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


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Mute

How is it that when I’m alone reels of pages appear before my eyes

Entire stories woven with the words I wanted to say but

Never found the bravery to let pass beyond my lips.

How is it that when I’m alone phrases flower on my tongue

But when I look into his eyes they falter, never flow

The silent sentences shrivel, their dried petals falling slow

I love him, but what will I do without the words to tell him so?


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Red Carpet Eyes

When he looks at me it’s like his eyes are a spotlight and I’m caught in the beam centre-stage. He looks at me not like I’m the backdrop to the scene; I’m not a faded set with peeling paint and flaking edges. I’m not a shabby stage curtain, tattered from where uncaring hands roughly tugged me to and fro. No- he looks at me like I am more.
When he stares I feel like the main event, Hollywood’s finest star. When he stares his eyes give me standing ovations, his lips shower me in rich red roses and a cacophony of cheers.
And even though he’s the only member of my audience, the only pair of eyes watching my show, I feel like the most cherished character there is. Because when he stares, he looks at me as though I’m something worth looking at.


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NaNoWriMo- Day 1

Anyone would’ve looked away at this point- after all, it was only a mundane interaction between boy and girl, waitress and customer. But something stopped me from averting my eyes, and that’s when I saw it. I watched her walk behind the counter to get his coffee, and I watched his eyes as he followed her every move. And in his stare was a look that had gone unnoticed to everyone except me. There in his soft smile and bright eyes stood that tiny flickering flame, that glimmering shred of hope shining in a kaleidoscope of quiet despair. I watched him watch her with such intensity it seemed to pain him, and eventually his eyes dropped back to his book. He shook his head, sighed softly, eyes riveting over the pages but not seeming to take anything in. A few seconds later she was back with his drink and they were both smiling and laughing as friends again- but I’d seen it. I’d recognised that look; it had existed in so many faces that passed through this old café. It was a look that occurred over cups of coffee, in all those hellos and goodbyes and in all those careless wandering words that filled the spaces in between. 
The poor boy was in love, and the girl he looked at with such longing had absolutely no idea.

So this year I’ve decided to do NaNoWriMo again as a way of trying to get into writing again. This year I’m writing a collection of short stories all about the many regulars of one café. Above is a small excerpt of what I’ve written so far; it’s been great so far getting back into the feel of writing! Good luck to everyone doing NaNo this year and if I don’t write here again before the end of the month, have a wonderful November everyone!

~thebrowneyeddreamer


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A bitter thank-you; An honest goodbye.

I should really thank you for
Making me perfect cups of tea and
Showing me all your favourite bands and
Staying up late to say everything about nothing.

But I just want to forget about
Wasted tears falling in empty mugs and
Reminders of you in every stupid song
And staying up waiting for replies that never came.

You never really cared,
Did you?


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One Day

One day you’re going to wake up to an empty bed
And realise exactly what you’re missing.
In between the sheets will lie the soft scent and gentle laughter
Of a girl you fed lies to, a girl you led to her demise
All in the name of a love you knew was never true.
So I hope that laughter tugs at your chest,
And that scent wraps itself around your throat
And reminds you how beautiful she was, how wonderful she was
And how stupid you are for noticing too little too late.
One day you’re going to watch her walk straight past
And realise exactly what you just let go.
Cry out all you want- curse until your lips crack dry,
It was always going to end this way;
You let her slip between your slithering grasp
And she’s too far away to get back.


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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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Ramblings

I love how  you speak. Words roll gently out of your mouth and slow dance around our heads like the ripples of firefly ashes that glide from a dying flame. Your voice wraps itself around my mind and lingers long after silence envelopes the spaces between you and I, your lips whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Your words, always the right ones, like you took the time to pick them out for me. before letting them escape your mouth.

It could not be more different from how I speak. My mouth is a babbling brook, words frothing out of my throat and tumbling clumsily through the silence.  They gather like the final wave of the sea, crashing ashore as words slop over each other and muddle together as they spill out of my lips. My chatter cartwheels around your gentle flame in excitable, graceless bounds. Before I can stop them, they plummet from my mouth and pierce through the silence, never the right words, never what I wanted to say.

But your words are there to meet my words, to calm them into a quiet, ebbing shore. Your soft voice is there to lull my nervous high-pitched ramblings into sweet serenity. A few simple words to slow my cluttered mess of a mind, a few of the right words, the best words. Something in the way you speak enchants me, and I’m left mesmerised by the way in which you speak, the beauty that lies in how you talk.