A collection of my favourite personal pieces of work. These range from works written from age 14 years through to 37, in no particular order.
Be voracious with my heart, not chaste or I shall suffer.
Wrap me up inside your cloth and show my heart you love her.
Tangled spirits soar and knot, ’til louder shall she beat.
But stars then shine on sweat and breath, as morning comes to greet.
Your hastened grip grows weaker then, your cloth unwraps around me.
Into the dawn you disappear, leaving your heart inside thee.
Tiny fingers dance on her pillow.
I sigh and sneak a look at the time on my phone. An hour.
She startles at the sudden brightness and whispers ‘mama’.
I lay my head next to her cheek and she immediately inches towards me until the downy hairs on her face are brushing against my own.
She sighs deeply, satisfied in her successful conquest.
Her arm reaches through the narrow gap between my head and neck and I feel her fingers grasping at my hair for security.
She turns her face to me and nuzzles my nose.
I don’t waiver and steady my own breathing making each breath slow and audible to set her own rhythm.
The fingers on my hair begin to loosen their grip, a twitch as she enters sleep brings about one final search for a comfortable position.
I ease my breathing, listening and watching as her little chest slows and her body relaxes.
Mama she whispers so faintly it would be missed if we were not cheek to cheek.
And then peace.
She calls out at night
That lone wolf
Who has no pack.
Roaming in and round and through
Pattering paws upon soft earth.
Hard, jagged rock
Proud at cliffs edge.
She needs no pack
That lone wolf
Who calls at night.
It started as a mere rumble in the centre of my being.
Piercing outwards, darting to every extremity with a burning.
But not of desire.
It builds and builds, fuelled by the darkness where there once was light, the resentment where there once was desire and distain where there once was passion.
It tumbles and groans and overtakes me.
I heave and hold it in with all of my might. I hold it into my gut forcing my face crimson and my heart black. I hold it into my gut to the detriment of every cell in my body.
I make myself sick.
I swallow it down, down, deeper. Years pass. My face pale and worn; my eyes without spark. Still it rumbles. Still it overtakes me. Still I hold it in with all my might.
This is where desire and passion find their mortal end.