the wall around her heart

It began with bricks, I guess,

built from the abuse above.

The big-smile baby knew no more,

no less. But she had no floor

or roof or wall, her

boundaries spliced,

her ego nil.

Her cement did set quite early.

It took years to even see that.

Dreams of locks not working

haunt the trusting times.

The little girl got trapped

with owning, booing crap.

To escape takes more than hair.

Say ‘boo’ to the witch that’s there.

This poem is number 24 in a month’s worth of poems for NaPoWriMo.

Inspired by today’s theme of masonry, mine is a Jung-inspired take on Rapunzel.

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Why I think my best writing has nothing to do with me at all

I kind of hate to say this, but I think my best writing comes from another place totally beyond my control, my life, my consciousness. I’m talking about the kind of writing I read back the next day and think ‘where the **** did that come from?!’ (in a good way, I mean).

My flashes of inspiration come from a dark cave of pedestrian writing. (pic: istockphoto.com/rozbyshaka)

I know I have flashes of brilliance in my creative writing: times when I’m in awe of the written word to convey a feeling, a moment, a heartbeat. But those flashes are little chinks of light in what can sometimes feel like a dark cave of inane drivel and self-obsessed tosh.

Getting out of the way

I’ve realised that my best writing comes when I Continue reading