Trust vs Fear: the creative writer’s dilemma


I creep around, spying other’s glory

through shrouds of envy and spite.

I stress, I spew belligerent bile,

I despoil what feels my birthright.



If you only knew what your heart could spill.

If you only could allow

those creative gales to transform your gall

into work that makes you feel proud.



That gale just feels like a deadly whip

that will beat my words to a pulp,

reducing me to a limping pace

while the rest of the world can gallop.



Gallop implies a race to somewhere

while your journey is yours alone.

Pick supreme, your heart’s main theme,

and you’ll romp to the place called home.


A poem for Day 14 of NaPoWriMo 2015: A dialogue

exposing the cloak of success

Achievement’s a cloak like the emperor’s new clothes

that eventually show their nude.

My success has been my calling card, through

a life of critique and rude.

My cloak was stitched with A-grades, degrees,

a career of mastering challenge.

I wore my cloak with scholarly pride, to dinner

and breakfast and lunch.

My achievement cloak hid all of my sins,

and a body that could not connect,

because feeling something might propel me back

to the blows around my neck.

My cloak brought me work, and sometimes awards

to frame and prove I was good.

Titles, money, power and glory – isn’t that how

success is understood?

Work became my pride and joy, stressy badges

to sew to my cloak.

Not knowing that what I fed myself, others,

would eventually make me choke.

‘Cos when success was robbed from me, and

I lost my believed esteem,

the cloak that fell from my puny self

exposed my bare-bodied screams.

Without my cloak I was shrivelled, a slug

on a rainy path at night,

without form or spine, or plausible goal,

I writhed with shame and spite.

My success had always defined me, gave me

light in a room of dark.

Without external validation, where the hell

would I find my spark.

I’ve been searching my soul for the answer to that

for the last six or so years.

In a cycle, I’m temped by the lure of success, and

a salary to stamp out my fears.

When that eludes, I seek something else

to fill the void of the cloak,

but without its defending, hiding role

I find I’m emotionally broke.

Yet once the cloak is exposed as fake

it’s hard to believe it was once real.

My journey now is to create a new life

out of fabric with a softer feel.

I’m facing each day with authentic intent,

Yet the urge is still there, I reckon.

Is my cloak hung up on the hook of beyond,

or does its shield have an unbearable beckon?

A poem for urban sunflowers

inktuition urban sunflowers

My thoughts are grey and hurried.

My heels click a pavement rhythm

that’s awfully fast and fed-up.

My true self easily gets buried

in the soil of daily hum.

I often forget to look up.

But why always so worried?

When I lift my eyes from my glum,

I see yellow and smiles erupt

with petals and hearts a flurry.

They’re the sun I yearn to become:

my game plan now feels upped.