Lost at Sea

This is a cryptic piece which describes a girl flicking her hair at me and blushing. I think its got to be one of the sweetest things in the world.

lost at sea:

phoenix rises with a flick,
catching on half-eclipsed red-sun;
stormy seas roll, flash.

roses on hillsides bloom,
frozen by peeking pearls;
whole world tilts, forwards.

ivory caps delicately float,
phoenix flung back to rest;
stormy seas rise, lost.

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Thank-you for reading.

CW

where there’s hope, there’s an author trying to prove it.

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Homeless In Love Part II

This is the second in the set of poems I was writing based on the picture of the homeless couple I saw (image is attached to first poem). This post is written from the perspective of the male and is in a much different style. I have written it rather cryptically but that’s because I have an intense idea of the imagery in my mind based on my own personal experiences of the homeless and as one of the homeless.

Enjoy.

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Homeless in Love (Male)

Beep beep, eyes up,
Senses on.
Danger?
None…

Is she breathing? Slowly. Freezing.
Hold her, tighter.
Heartbeat, faster.
Another night, no disaster.

Looking outwards, eyes keep ground-wards.
Fast bound feet, hold my hand out.
Laughter at us, so I think.
Though if not, feels like it.

Eat when able, un-cleared tables,
Do not sit, aim for staples.
Wandering watchers, fall exhausted,
Feeling drained, slumping paupers.

Hold her close, make her smile.
Kiss her softly, stare a while.
Stroke her hair and kiss her brow.
Sleepy smiles, dreaming now…

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Thank-you for reading.

CW

where there’s hope, there’s an author trying to prove it.

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The Man

Continuing on with the theme of isolation that I have seemed to be running with. This piece is a little darker than my others and is written to give sense of emotion and physical distress through extreme duress.

Enjoy

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Emotions mean weakness. It’s a rule that is beat into every new recruit as soon as they hit the academy. But it doesn’t matter; he is still here, in this small room, feeling his emotions get the better of him. They yelled, they screamed, they tried to make him speak. He could not…his whole emotive capacity had become focused on a single, terrible, emotion…fear.

Even if he had wanted to tell them where the rest of the team was, he couldn’t. He sat, in a pool of his own urine, nodding his head and swaying back and forth like a Muslim at sunset. He breathed through his teeth and dislodged the stale spittle on the end of his tongue, but lack of moisture made it thick and he is forced to breath in quickly as it catches on his teeth and shuts his mouth’s opening; making him gag.

They do not know if they can get more out of him, they throw him bodily against the hard wall and then drag him back under the light…he is too weak to speak, too tired to breathe…too scared to help…He sits there, quivering, a bundle of rags on the floor…he is broken.

Threats will have no effect now, they know this; they leave him. He is in a room with no windows, a small bulb hanging from a cord makes the shadows keep their distance and he finds himself longing more and more for a bullet and a gun to put it in. He throws his eyes back into his skull as he lifts his grisly visage and spits into the air, the blood goes straight up and lands, in a puddle of the same, on his shirt.

He folds on the floor and can’t think his name, his thoughts are all jumbled, and his language is gone. He was a soldier, a common green male. He sits on the floor and cries though the night. When he looks up – the pain from the tears is making a thump, which throbs through his head; he cannot control the agony of fear. He lifts up his tears and stares through the darkness, the only thing left…is the terror of day.

His eyes lift further to the hot globe above him, he screams at the light and then runs against the door, beating his body into it like a haunting Taiko ensemble. The guards on the outside hear him faintly through the thick wooden door they laugh harshly at the sound and then sit down to their dinner. Inside the banging stops…

The room is dark, the light is smashed and scattered on the ground, glass coating the single wooden chair. If there were light the view would be this – a silent man swings from a cord in the ceiling, silently telling the fear that he felt.

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Thank-you for reading.

CW

where there’s hope, there’s an author trying to prove it.

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Homeless in Love

I saw this picture and was inspired to write a couple of pieces based on it. One from the females perspective and one from the males, not something I’m overly qualified to write about. But having spent some time in my life homeless I wanted to give an idea of the feeling of isolation from society that acts as a huge barrier to getting yourself back on track. It is at moments like these, companionship is all you desire and in most cases, more than you can hope for…

Enjoy.

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Homeless in Love (Female)

All life’s possessions stored in a bag,
Walking together, holding his hand.
Feeling the wind, the rain and the sleet.
Curled up each night, hard footpath, cold feet.

Wake up to fingers, cold to the tip.
Brushing of hair, hands shaking, soft lips.
Gentle arms tight, for me to be warm.
A loving embrace, askew from the norm.

Traffic around us, we wake and stretch out.
Sit up into arms, he rocks me and pouts.
Flick his lip, laughter, morning is warm.
Stand up, arms locked, head off for the shore.

Bath time, no soap, saltwater for clothes.
Shower on beach, a bucket, or hose.
Scrubbing together in front of the locals;
Staring and grinning like half-bred hick yokels.

Day rolls by, night comes on, stomach is sore,
Thinking of doctors, hah, drugs from the store.
Arms there as always, they’re holding me close.
Sleep now and love him…extra large dose.

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I shall add the male piece in time.

Thank-you for reading.

CW

where there’s hope, there’s an author trying to prove it.

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Strength in Solitude

I recently saw this photo taken by my friend Angelea Galloway, model is Louise Ella Butler, and this poem just wrote itself.

Image

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Crowded mind in an open field, trying tide on a sculpted shield.
Windswept melody leading me softly away from reality.
Playing in my hair, it’s a symphony,
charging through my veins like a reveille.
It’s assault, my desire so totally;
for when I close my eyes, instantly my fears come floating back to me.
Dramatically.
Pulling me.
Let sound natures tympani’s,
Beating through my heart and relieving me,
shoring up the cracks so skilfully.
I can breath.
Easily.
Seasoned wind blows ‘cross the dunes,
I find my strength in solitude.

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Thank-you for reading.

 

CW

where there’s hope, there’s an author trying to prove it.

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Craftswoman

This is a short poem I had on my mind when I woke up, sorry to interrupt my other writing with this (and yes i am still editing future updates along the subject of writing and the journey to understanding ourselves).

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The satin of my pillow is a sad reminder of your gentle touch.
In the darkness I can feel every callous on my hands and I am confused.
I am holding satin smooth as butter but this roughness is new to me after your skin.
It gives me pause to wonder if you were the finest sandpaper,
moulding my fingers to melt into your shape with every soft caress.
Maybe the soft grinding of my fingertips into your flesh is what has carved your way into my body and left a mark on my heart that aches when I hear your name.
Maybe it’s your outer coarseness that let me feel just how soft your inner tenderness was.
But for now I’m just here;
lying alone in the dark, stroking my satin…hurting for you.

CW

where there’s hope, there’s an author trying to prove it.

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Understanding why we write…

(This blog and most following are written to relate specifically to writers but only in the formatting. Replace the word writer with artist or creator or inventor or any other creative capacity and you can read this blog along the vein that suits you. The implications in this text, are for all of you.)

As a writer one of the hardest things you are ever going to have to deal with is people telling you that your writing isn’t acceptable, isn’t real, isn’t true.

The reason that you can’t acknowledge that as a writer, as a person who’s spent time living the creation they’ve made, is because your writing is your justification of the world. Your writing is you taking all the information you’ve been given, everything you’ve read everything everyone’s ever told you and saying to yourself, ok so this is how the world works. If someone turns around and says to you “look this isn’t what the world’s about, this isn’t right this isn’t the way things should be”  then maybe they haven’t gone through the right emotional stages to be able to understand every deeper aspect of all the real-life situations you’ve been exposed to, and the fundamental reason why writers write…

To Help

You are writers because you care, you are writers because you want to be able to explain the world so other people can understand it, you want someone to be able to look at your writing and go, “wow…that just made so much sense, that just put so much more perspective on the way that I live my life.”

You don’t do that because you are arrogant and you don’t do that because you are driven by some deviant purpose, you do it because you just want to help, and the hardest thing about being a writer is realising that you can’t help everybody. You can’t push people to understand life.  The thing that a lot of writers won’t understand is that people will read your writing and not grasp it. But just because they don’t comprehend it straight away doesn’t mean they won’t get it in the future, it doesn’t mean they won’t understand what you were aiming for once they have gone through the same emotional responses that you’ve already endured.

Because that’s the whole problem, the hardest part about being a writer is feeling unappreciated by not being understood. The thing you have to remember is that people will always appreciate you for your writing. Eventually.  In the same way that you can watch a movie once as a child and not understand it, then come back to it as an adult and grasp the concepts behind the film, such is the development during your adult life that enlightens you to the nuances inside every text you read.

C.S Lewis wrote a letter to a fan of his once in which he briefly mentioned this problem while warning his fan not to read Wordsworth’s Prelude because they were too young to appreciate it and understand it properly.

“you’re bound to read it about 10 years hence. Don’t try it now, or you’ll only spoil it for later reading”

That isn’t arrogance, that’s a strong belief that this piece of literature is going to be the most helpful and beautiful in this person’s life once they are old enough or have struggled enough to appreciate it. Whatever you write, it’s going to make an impact on somebody’s life that five years down the track, ten years down the track they are going to look back BAM “I understand, I know what that writer meant now…” because our task isn’t to write and explain the scenery and the characters and the people, our job is to create a feeling inside people that makes them capable of creating their own explanations from reading our experiences in our words.

CW

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where there’s hope, there’s an author trying to prove it…

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Intentions

My intentions with this blog are simple, to try to help as many people as I can with the thoughts that threaten to make my brain explode. There are so many people out there struggling with life and there are so many creators (artists, writers, crafters, painters, musicians) who lose their way because they lose sight of the simple and basic reason why they create.

I hope to shed some light on the unknown darkness that comes with being a writer based upon my experiences in life.  The conclusions I’ve made are drawn from years of depression and doubt and are applicable to anyone who creates things from their imagination, not just writers. The end result is that I’ve found a way to justify my life and my fears in a way that makes sense to myself, and hopefully will help some of you to realise your gift as just that.

Tortured writers aren’t a cliche, there is a reason why so many who have come before us have struggled through life.

It’s the eternal fight to help mankind understand. Understand that the world isn’t as scary as they are led to believe. The hardest hurdle that any writer will have to overcome is losing hope that what they write will affect anyone, and that’s what I’m going to try to tackle in this blog.

Hope is enduring, belief in your writing stems from that hope. Believe that your writing can make a difference.

CW

where there’s hope, there’s an author trying to prove it.

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