You’ll get over it.
You’ll learn to live with it.
She had a good innings.
It was a blessing in the end.
She was a good mother
You should forgive her.
She didn’t know any better
She couldn’t help but batter
A reflex raised her voice.
She had no choice.
my full moon is pure and proud
in defiance of what’s not allowed
it knows its time is short but bold
everyone looks, in awe to behold
the perfect roundness, circle cute
all knowing, feeling, cool, astute
Why now is this happening to me?
Why to me is this happening now?
Why is this happening to me, now?
The answers could take a lifetime.
My daughter does splash love.
I call it sweat dew.
The time: it is length day.
She wins: it is gold shine.
You give me a tickly tummy
when I’m ready to race.
I try not to be scared of you,
knowing you’ll up my pace.
You make me feel sick sometimes.
You always bring along some dread
that I won’t be able to perform.
I fear coming last instead.
So, how can I use you to guide me,
to help me think positive things?
Cos surely the butterflies you send me
are there to give me wings…?
Crystal Friday shines through glass.
High time for weekend forecast.
Ice clinks a tinkling tipple.
Cooling chance we can sip from.
Don’t let outside take away
a clear-cut sense of style. Ole’.
Pick up a pen
and fill a page.
Expressive writing
will calm your rage.
Pick up a pen
and say what you feel.
Therapeutic writing
will help you heal.
Pick up a pen
and write from your soul.
Creative writing
will make you whole.
Try it upside down, you say.
The way I taste your world, you mean.
Dream a little dream, I say.
I’m really not ever that keen.
Still, you say, you’ll always save a prayer
just in case.
But in these shoes, I reply,
I refuse to lose my grace.
I’d love my 200th post
To be full of love and stuff
But it comes from a place of rage:
someone who’s had enough
of doing the thinking for others
and always bowing her head.
Well, take it back, you ****ers:
we’re not long til we’re dead.
You live in a box of 70s plastic blue,
a doting reminder of
what I quickly outgrew.
Opened, it exudes a scent of resin
that transports me back
to being eleven.
One touch of your fragrant satin
and I’m back on stage in
a pirouetting pattern.
Your robust pointes are carefully sewn,
your ribbons a symbol of our tie.
To you my love I’ve always shown.
From that first day you were moulded to me.
You are singularly mine, today,
as I was back then: size three.
The day we met, I became whole.
I wept when ballet lessons stopped.
Only the smell of you, now, helps console.
inktuition 