Tuesday, 3 November 2015


Some people have places they go or people they talk to for respite. I have my solace right here on this blog.  Writing gives me the time and space I need.  I craft poetry from my pain and gain a light blanket of comfort from releasing my feelings as words on a blank page. 

Some don't understand this need to write, to share my feelings with an audience that don't know me or in some cases do, but I write because I feel I can't speak.  I'm once again brought back to that little girl with an accent afraid to let words out of my mouth in case they bring ridicule, shame or disdain.

I'm once again brought back to that teenager that will not verbally tell you I'm lost but will hide within myself or within the world of a story or verse.  

I want to be that adult that runs down the road screaming, I want to fall to my knees and beg for a different outcome but instead I sit here alone and I write.

Visitors come and I put on a brave face, when I leave home I walk down the road and look at others wondering how many are pretending.  Pretending that their lives haven't been ripped into pieces by one thing or another.  Wondering if God is just an angry child hurling his toys off bridges or into bathtubs, cutting them up and taking pieces of them to throw away.

I might be wrong to question.  I might be wrong to feel anger in my grief.  I might be wrong not to verbalise my sorrow but rather than be trapped in it, I write.

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