The Brown Eyed Dreamer

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


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Writer’s Block

I can see the scenarios in front of me
Like shots from a movie scene,
The anger, the laughter, the tears
All accompanied by only silence-
I can’t hear the words to tell the story,
And this tale is but a blank canvas
I, the artist, without paint.
Images swirl and fall together
In no order, a jumbled kaleidoscope
Of nonsensical stories,
A twisted mirage of bleak nothings.
I see the end, the final kiss,
The last few moments of a perfect scene-
But the main girl, she’s crying
And the boy, he has no words
This wasn’t the ending we all pictured…
If only I could find the words
To change it.


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Her Words

Your words are like daggers in the night-time:
They slowly slither out of your mouth and then pounce
Upon their victim- me. You turn,
Look at me with squinted eyes and a snake’s sly smile,
Hiss the venomous words from between your tainted lips,
Litter the air around us with razor-blade insults and remorse.
I see you laugh
And laugh, your eyes glinting
As you watch the blood fall from the small cuts
That pierce the paper-thin envelopes of my skin.

They say the tongue is as sharp as any sword,
And I’m starting to believe them.


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Little Monsters

There’s a monster who lives inside our heads;
A tiny demon who feasts on the doubts that
Fall from the tears and
Drip from the blood and
He grows, he grows, he gets louder.

There’s a monster who lives inside our heads;
A little creature who feeds you the lies that
Make the tears fall and
Make the blood drip but
You’ve just got to learn how to fight him.


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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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Broken Souls

The trouble with us,
Is we don’t let anyone know,
What’s going on in our heads,
Until it’s too late.
Then we run to the arms of our parents,
And shatter like glass at their feet,
The cracks of our broken souls stare back at them,
And they’re left to pick up the pieces.

[Taken from my other blog, Imagine.]