Sometimes she whispers in my ear, a tapestry of pain and fear whose warp and weft weave haunted days and nightmare dreams through woeful sobs and blooded screams; till phantoms from a private hell enshroud me in a chilling spell.
I’m on a tour within her mind, where those outside are breaking in and every thought accuses sin in saddest voices man ever heard.
Midst grief, defying spoken word, she can only run and hide, cringe ever deeper down inside, avoiding some imagined threat from a friend… or foe she’s never met.
I know more of her than of my own, my wasted waif who walks alone. I want to ride inside her head and sweep it clean of all it’s dread, but will not know her when we meet; walk past her, crying in the street.
But till she finds the strength to lay the horrors of the past and scream, “I’m me! I’m running free!” There’ll be no woman sweet asleep, but just the child who I hear weep.
In the early days I imagined myself wandering the lanes of England with a rucksack on my back and, maybe, something lively in my hip-flask. I saw myself sitting on a hill somewhere, scribbling poems and, hopefully, making enough to keep body and soul together. But life isn't like that and, after a few years at sea and in the army, I found myself with a wife and kids to keep. So now, with three novels wallowing on Kindle, I scribble the odd rhyme by way of a hobby and shove it on my blog. Hope someone out there finds them interesting.
what is her fault? just ”being a girl”. Took her to the worst, left nothing to curse. No sense nor an idea, why and what is going on her. Calling out mom, wished hearts would really connected. considered her an
All braced to face the day, The diurnal engine ignited, Gently revving up, Barging into the quietude Of the colony, With a daily prayer escaping His mumbling lips, As he steered mildly Into the road, To see a car pulled
An innocent small girl is crying on the roadside her face seems very candid and expressions look naïve, but nobody knows the cause of her sadness and and no one can ever feel the hidden wounds inside her heart Why
She was four and I was six. We held hands and ate pixie stix. The big head little girl whom followed me around the corner. Soon we became friends. We held hands with skin like bricks. I cleansed her hands