The damage you left behind.

L – Longing. The longing for touch. A simple touch. That’s all that you wish for in this life that is slowly becoming more of them and less of you. The longing to see him, to talk to him, hear his voice in hushed whispers across miles upon miles of uncharted land saying those words that place you so high above the ground. They’re never said.
O – Okay. What you have to be when he goes, what you want to be when he won’t even look you in the eyes anymore because it’s terrifying for him to see the streams of salty sadness pour out of you. You can’t be okay because to be okay means you have to feel and you can’t do that anymore.
V – Void. You never even loved him, you never saw him, he never took over your life. You ignore it all, void it like a debt that has been owed for too long. He owes you still, love, passion, a lifetime of memories you cannot get back. You try to give yourself dignity and pride and show off but to who? No one is watching you anymore. He isn’t watching you anymore, wanting you anymore. 4 years of your life, void.
E – End. They say that time heals everything, but that isn’t true. Everything is a pronoun, that is all it is. Everything encompasses for nothing, nothing is a synonym for empty and empty is the wardrobe without his clothes in, the hallway without his shoes. The end of us, should not be the end of me – but it is.


Head spinning in circles,

Triangles painted on the wall,

heart shaped eyes,

But not for me. Never

for me.


Music painting zig zag patterns,

Light dancing a perfect diamond,

Bodies moving in shapes unknown –

But you don’t see me. Never



Crosses and crescents,

Ovals and pentagons,

All to make you notice me,

But like a kite, I fly,

Fly in circles, over and under, down and round,



my head is spinning circles,

all because of you.


The Unexpected Arrival.

“Delightful!” Mother exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement. The new batch of seeds had just been delivered to the farm after weeks of waiting. She had gone through several stages with this delivery, anger, sadness, hope, despair and now sheer happiness that they had arrived. Living on a farm where bad droughts and harvests knew us like family was bad enough without late seed deliveries. I had to give up my own secret share of rice yesterday to let my brother eat. We needed them, but it was up to fate and good weather once they were planted.
Once the delivery man had clambered onto his horse and cart, and mother had waved him away she ran inside and came out with an iron rod to pry the crate open. A struggled noise came from her lips as she tried to budge the crate and inspect the seeds. Not wanting to wait much longer myself, or see her struggle, I gave her a hand. Yank. The lid fell to the floor. Silence fell upon the farm. It wasn’t until the goat tried to jump from the crate did we move and catch it. “Where are the seeds…?” Exasperated, defeated. I looked at her weary eyes that had once held such hope and felt her grief. We couldn’t survive without crop for food and the market. The goat made another noise, presumingly as terrified of us as we were of it’s consequences. My hands drifted to its wirey, grey coat and brushed gently to calm the innocent soul. It soon relaxed into my touch. The same wouldn’t be said for mother. Collapsing into a pile of weak bones on the floor. She had failed. She could no longer feed her children.

P A P E R H A T S A N D A E R O P L A N E S .

I best explain the context with this one! It’s being certain that you printed out enough paper, enough sheets to go around an entire class full of students to realise there were 2 sheets missing. This is a poem about what happens to those sheets.


There once was a very ordinary man,

Who went by the name of Stan,

He had an ordinary job at an ordinary school,

(And also had strep throat which made him drool.)

Every day he did the same routine.


He would come to work and sit by the desk waiting patiently.

A few late stragglers would fall into the building, give their names and be on their way.

He often wondered why they were late.

Maybe they’d ripped their trousers while slaying a dragon, or perhaps speeding through the Wild West in one of those bandwagons,

Either way it seemed a better adventure, then printing out sheets of paper.

That was until a very precarious day.


A2 Creative Writing the monitor screen read,

The man smiled a little and wisps of thoughts started to thread.

A plan had begun to form, an ordinary plan for an ordinary man and

Oh – the mishaps that he would have.

The sheets of paper began to print, small in size and using black ink.

Let’s have some fun he said out loud, and stole two sheets of paper from the crowd.

I wonder how many late stragglers will know it was me, I might do it again – and no one will find out.