Sunday, 8 January 2012

Poor Edward

Edward woke to the sound of his alarm but his eyes wouldn't open straight away. Like most nights he had stayed up beyond a reasonable hour and was now feeling it. His alarm was still buzzing but he struggled to find the energy to move. Eventually it stopped but he knew he would be having the same problem again in 9 minutes. He went though the same mantra in his head ‘just one more day’ and rolled to his side ready for the call to battle, the whistle that would signal him to charge over the top and into another day. The bell that tolled his doom.

The alarm sounded and he hit it straight away. The thought on his mind? The same as always. Her.

He sat on the side of his bed and surveyed his empire. Ash covering the floor, plates stacked high held together with the cement of dried food. Clothes to the other side of the bed, unwashed but likely to be reused. He checked his phone, 2 messages, neither of them from her.

Edward rolled back on his bed and lit a cigarette. He needed to do something. Make something of himself. When he met her he had been on the cusp of a solid writing career, nothing spectacular but at least something to put him on the ladder, a few articles here and there. She had liked that about him. The promise of potential. While they were together he had sat in bed and typed while she read a book next to him, occasionally quoting something in French from one of her poets. He had liked this. Thought himself an artist.

It didn’t last.

She had grown bored of his way of life and was moving on to bigger things. She had become focused on her career as so many did in their mid twenties. She worked in the city and it had changed her. The little romantic gestures that she had loved were gradually being outweighed by glitzy and what Edward thought to be pretentious nights out with work friends. He didn’t like to talk about work, especially the kind of work she was in. Eventually he resented the money she was earning and grew bitter towards her. That was the beginning of the end.

She moved out several months after and Edward began to slip between the cracks. He finished his cigarette and considered the mess. He stumbled over an ash tray as he walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Nothing but a can of beer. He opened it, lit another cigarette and lay on his bed.

He went online and checked her profiles on all the sites. Happy pictures with work friends on expensive holidays. He had messaged her several times but she never responded. The last message was left there; he couldn’t bring himself to delete it.

‘Great to hear from you, life is great thanks. The new flat is really nice and much closer to work. Hope you start writing again, I always liked that about you. Take care x’

That was four months before and the truth is he had stopped writing when it started to go wrong between them, and he had nothing but white noise and her face in his head now. It was all he had and she had taken it with her along with everything else. He had not left his flat in days and he felt like the walls were closing in on him. He picked up a book amongst the mess and read a few lines. Rimbaud. He didn’t speak French but when he read the pages he saw her, her deep brown eyes, her smile. His eyes filled with tears. He put the book down, then picked it up and threw it in the bin.

Edward text a few people to see if they were around. He thought that if he left the house his flat may seem less like a tomb. No answer. He went to the shop and got a bottle of whiskey. Returned and ran a bath. He put on some melancholic music and got in, whiskey bottle clutched in his hand, packet of cigarettes on the toilet next to him. The album finished and he stayed in the bath, in silence finishing the whiskey or the cigarettes, whichever came first.

When he towelled off he felt very light headed. He sat at his desk and looked at the pictures of her he had still kept there out of some torment. He ran his finger across the surface of the desk and it was caked in dust. Dead skin. Fragments of both of them locked together. He hadn’t thought of this before and placed his face against it, trying to breath in something of her. When he lifted his head he realised that he was crying. The bottle was empty.

He took a belt and hooked it to the top of his bedroom door. Edward sat on his bed and looked at it. Was this to be it? He couldn’t see any way he could turn this around. It was her. Always her. She was his test on this earth and he had failed. He walked over to the bin and pulled out the book, he needed one last look at those eyes, hear her voice and see her smile. The words unintelligible to him but she was in all of them. He lit the last cigarette in the pack and sat on the bed, reading words that seemed almost holy to him, he placed the book over his face dreaming of better times. When he pulled it away it was damp.

He closed his bedroom, door.

Poor Edward was doomed.

Monday, 20 June 2011

The Woman and her Sorrow

She stands on the bus holding her child
to her chest.
She rocks back and forth with its motion.
She can't hide her sadness, her sorrow.
The scars she endures are buried deep,
burned in her eyes.
Her heart hidden from all bears no resemblance
to the girl she was.
The woman she thought she'd be.
Her heart that she has offered to too many
unwilling recipients.
Unworthy ones.
For this moment as the bus rattles through the
familiar streets she she allows her mind to wander.
To dream.
She closes her eyes.

She feels warmth on her face.
Her ears fill with the bustle of a busy town.
They hear unfamiliar and exotic voices.
She walks the streets and she feels important.
Her name is known. Respected.
She turns down a small side street and into
a vibrant cafe.
Jazz pours out of the door.
Her date is inside waiting.
Her heart flutters with anticipation.
She scans the room for the one who she loves,
the one who loves her.

The bus jolts through a gear and her baby
starts crying.
She quietens him down with a deep sigh,
she closes her eyes.
All she can hear is the talk of the bus.
There is no warmth of her face here,
no one knows her.
Her travels, her dreams are done for the day.
She looks down at the wet stain her child's tears
have left on her coat.

She knows she will cry tonight.

Monday, 17 January 2011

Rant in the Key of Regret

Too much time has passed in my life without achievement. Sometimes this becomes all too much. I lose faith. I’m tired of being guided by voices only I can hear. There is so much noise in this world it is easy for voices to get lost. Mine did, for a while. I thought for a long time things were serious, I had to focus. I was wrong.

Father time has too much interest in seeing me grow up and Mother Nature cursed me with her bad side. Walking in the dark for so long took its toll. The Wilderness. I was trapped in the dark. I regret letting things slip by me. I was I see through that amazing grace. Failure was something I thought I was ready for. I wasn’t. I don’t even know the meaning of the word. I can’t do any worse than doing nothing.

The moments of waiting are behind me. I regret waiting this long before starting the long journey of finding my voice. If I have to shout I will. If I have to scream I will. Ready for failure, ready for loss.

Being born at 25 with nothing is late...but it’s not the end.

My Notebook

My notebook hangs heavy in my pocket,

the one thing that knows all of my lies.

The one thing that hears my confessions,

my secrets,

my dreams.

All the things I should have said and couldn’t muster nerve to.

I haven’t said anything to it lately.

My silent friend,

now my worst enemy.

It needs my stories, my confessions.

Without them it is my worst enemy.

Its pages taunt me.

I remove it from my pocket and open it,

blank lines staring my at me with murderous intent.

I look at them and offer all I can,

an apology to its pages.

The lack of attention.

I close it, hold its leather to my face,

The smell that reminds me of better times.

I close it and slip it back into my pocket.

I can’t face it today.

Tuesday, 4 January 2011

The Journey

It took me a long time to get here.

Just to stand here with you is the end

To a journey I can’t begin to explain.

Looking at you, holding your hand,

Which you lightly squeeze I know

I don’t need to explain.

My breath is light and sharp.

Your secret name haunts

My lips.


You won’t see me.

My head is down and my eyes are fixed to

the floor following a point where my

Dreams live.

I’ll keep walking with them just in front of me

And hope I don’t bump into anyone.

If I do, I am sorry.

I can’t usually see where I’m going because

My dreams are worth following

and sometimes forget that things

happen outside of them.

If I distract you from your dreams

Why don’t you join me and

Follow mine for a while.

You are welcome


I think I am ready to let go of the pain

Of what we were,

And embrace the joy of you.

Your Brilliance.

No one will ever know what we lost,

the twilight sadness of something

we once had,

now dimmed forever.

I was given a moment of what being complete

felt like,

I was too close to the sun and my wings began

to melt.

The day I knew it was over was the worst,

Much worse than the weeks that followed and

Then the end.

I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the

Forever I promised.

It is was promise I never intended to break.

I hope someone will keep it.