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United Kingdom

you know that ancient egyptian embalming technique where they pull out the brain through the nose? that’s what i do with writing. if i were you, i wouldn’t lick my pencils.

Message from Writer

'the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. the curves of your lips rewrite history.'

16 | english | big nerd | explorer | ravenclaw | big stress | i want to join and then publicly leave Scientology so tom cruise hunts me down

Published Work

It Was Just A Prank, Bro

“Officers, for the last time, it was an accident.”

Dubiously, the police officer gazed upon the teenager sprawled in the hospital bed. He was not a pretty sight: his brown hair was messed up, his grey eyes were bloodshot and his left arm was embraced protectively in a sling.

“I know what that look is. You don’t believe me,” he continued, an exasperated sigh dripping from his lips. “Disgusting. Unbelievable. I was promised a fair hearing of my experiences and you continue to look at me as if I meant for this to happen? I’ll tell you again: it was just a prank!”

“Let’s go through the story again, Richard.” She suggested calmly, fingers tapping impatiently on the radio at her hip. “Slowly.”

“Gotcha,” with a flourish of his right hand, Richard began his account of the day for the second time…

Everyone had been waiting for this day for months: sixteenth birthdays were a big thing. They only happened...

watching the sunset

look at the sunset;
hazy shimmers
of tarmac on a summer day,
lilac dancers 
traipsing with broken shoes.
mad blood stirring:
the sun drowning on the horizon,
swarmed over by the houses and the flickering lights that come on like ink splatters as the light runs away.

look around you;
you have friends.
you are loved and adored and their smiles 
are because of you.
the grass weeps joy
as you dance to the music,
way too loud for an urban area but you don’t care.
take her hand, brush against his side.
this is the magic you deserve. 

look at the sunset.
you say it isn’t much; 
a natural occurrence,
barely any colour.
you only saw the wilting sun for two minutes before it disappeared from view. 
you were only out for half an hour,
and goosebumps bubbled your skin in the mad blood stirring.
but it was enough.
feeling the ground beneath your body,
heart beating wildly,

Petty problems, but they still make me sick

Before I leave my house
I envision the trip’s instagram post
that I will publish in due time.
Another square on my profile;
geometric progression to the conformity
of shapes 
and the obtuse angles of polygons
pushing me into corners.
It has to be perfect (it doesn’t have to be real)
Just a smile for the camera.
Just a smile for my 77 followers, adoring fans. 
I’m scared that my arse is flat,
My acne has to be polished.
My scars have to be painted over with thick betrayals of rust red;
corrosion and deprivation of the soul.
I cannot watch a sunset
without wanting to show the world the flame licked sky on five seconds of story feed,
As if confessing that I go outside with hide the stress, the tears, the shaking hands
as I press post.

Can love defeat our modern world?

Will you reach for my hand
when the end is near and
take the time to wipe my tears? 
Will you notice my trembling 
as the bombs fall and the trees splinter 
and fade into ash? 
Will you gaze with me as affection 
as I model a suit
and watch football on a Sunday evening,
whilst the world shakes beneath me? 
Will you dance in the dark with me, darling,
as the ink of night draws closer;
a final act but I am in the cinema in a leather chair
whilst the bombs fall,
whilst experiments rage on in the countries that no one knows
and children cry and weep and starve and seep- their blood seeping into their demimonde graves? 
Will you save the world with me, my dear, 
before my brain is wiped
and I’m a slave to the memory of emotion 
between brunch and berry wine.

I’m tired of crying over school

Dear Examiner, 

I am writing to you about a horrific ailment that is plaguing generation after generation of poor, unsuspecting children. What is this horrible malady, I hear you ask? My answer is simple: exams. 

Even writing that horrible phrase has sent a shiver down my spine and carved a frown on to my lips, and I suspect it did the same to you, too. 

I reckon it even conjured up memories in your mind of trudging to school with wasps in your stomach and flash cards clutched desperately in your hand, begrudgingly taking the green mile to the exam room. Once there, you would sit on a tiny plastic chair (with very little back support), hunched over a tiny plastic desk and write and write and stress and stress for hours on end. Afterwards, you would be sick over contemplating all the little things you did wrong – perhaps you did the wrong calculation? – and, even if you did feel confident, you would have...

Nicotine at 89

she waits, poised, shuffling her feet
with her dressing gown loose across her skeleton 
painted with paper.

trembling hands,
starred with liver spots
broken constellations as she rubs the tobacco between her fingers

onto the white deception,
thin terror;
a splash of mud that hatred catalyst lies.

rolling up, head buried under sand,
wave after wave.
the dressing gown cord slips but
you do not notice. 

a pause, a glimmer, the distance from countertop to pale lips.
in the mouth, bribed like a glove 
full of dirty money. 

hanging out in raw heat,
flames that spark with deaf thunder.
ignite; burn; shrivel. Decay. 

door opened, a moment too late. 
chilly gale on a winter morning,
raising the heating bill. 

The Best Power Ranger is the Pink One

“What happened.” 

It wasn’t a question, it was a direct command to tell him. The voice was rough, as if gravel had been poured down his throat. It crunched and clicked as he punched me in the ribs once again, me doubling over as the acute pain resonated through my torso. 

“I-I’m not... I’m not telling you.” 

“That’s not what I like to hear.” 

Another punch, this time to the side of the face. Why do boxers do this for fun? Why did fight club say this was liberating? As far as I’m away, being beaten to a pulp is horrific. 

Blood was streaming down my face, hot and sticky like treacle. I could feel the bruises blossoming on my stomach; feel the broken ribs screaming for assistance. 

Yet, in my head, it was all pink. 

Pink: the colour of her walls, the gaudy nightmare of the fluorescent coating like a lollipop heralding the way to childhood content. Pink: the...

What did my lips do before?

What did my lips do
before they whispered your name,
echoes of trepidation lost on the wind that danced and swayed 
and contorted the tree limbs that splintered the sky.
What did my lips do
before they moaned sickly sweet
temptation of togetherness
that seemed so achingly raw on such an empty heart;
wrong fuel, wrong engine,
fire that burns so quickly it consumes.
And still, my lips would fantasise yours:
what did they do before? 
There was no before, that is the answer,
for the sky concocted me of dust and ash and the lip balm you always wore
and the stray strands of hair that clung like a knife edge.
And your lips made me
follicle by follicle 
as they trailed across my skin
and breathed life into my nostrils
close as my jugular to my beating heart so I ask you
What did my lips do before? 
Before I was silenced? 
In the dark. I am scared....

it was really warm today and walking in the sunshine made me want to have a revolution.

I feel a transformation coming,
Like a breath of life upon the wind;
Spring puffs to dispel the winter gloom,
Thawing the frost within my lungs.
The daffodils are growing,
Dances of yellow upon the ground.
They, too, rebel against the cold because 
despite the hard ground and the brittle trees,
The sun still shines 
Traipsing the border between life and death;
A storm, relentless in its beauty,
Soul giver; life.
I will be that flower for the sun still rises
And so shall I.

The world is the same as I,
Dust and starlight and I
shall create a supernova 
so that the stars, in time, can watch the new dawn from their faraway sofas,
Nothing happens whilst we lay dormant 
with the dead leaves over our eyes. 

Love in Words

cold sheets, oh where's my love?

empty coffee cup,
silent kettle
that hunches on the kitchen counter, 
choked with limescale.
i yearn for the mornings
where you would rise like the dawn, 
bleeding colours
from your bunny slippers.
lots of milk, lots of sugar,
lots of sweetness---
absent from my tongue.
my appetite for coffee
strong; engulfing
but i cannot. 
the sunrise bleeds,
monotone now.
the clock ceases to tick. 

my world is dying

the earth, the earth

spinning; my heart
a pancake stuck on the ceiling
i feel the earth shifting
beneath my feet
see the clouds
whisked like meringue peaks

the earth, the earth

oceans and land
jolting that throws my body
blood boiling
waves of trepidation 
splashing onto 
idle sand that burns

the earth, the earth

is crying
shoulders shaking
ash clouds in the sky
crawling into my lungs
stopping the engines
birds yelling as they burst from the trees

my earth, my earth
my world, my world

i'm trying to help
but it hurts so much
i'd wait a thousand years
just to see you smile again
but my words cannot conjure that on your lips
i'm trying
to help
but it's not working

Time is a Flat Circle

Servitude; chains of life,
interlocking rings of submission that are
never-ending, repetitive, locks
cutting in to my skin.
Even the scarlet seems dull:
mere ashes tasting my skin,
tongue dull, taste buds eroded,
monotonous flat circle that spins round
and round, carousel of night terrors 
(the only adrenaline I can salvage)
crawling through my veins with a 
forgotten purpose. 
The stars shine brightly
even they can explode
fade into nothing. 

Thales of Miletus

If everything is made out of water, 
you are my water. 
My tides and my currents and my comets that crashed to burn  
ice frost splinters that ruptured my skin 
and formed my blood;
flooded: melted ice caps 
the polar beat of my heart 
drowning. Trapped radiation on a throttled earth,
choked by a plastic bag.

The Cereal Makes Me Weep

I wish I could pluck the stars from the sky
and weave them into your eyes
for the face staring at me from the photograph 
serves no justice to the innocence, the beauty, the grace, the joy
that once sparkled within.
Now it is the weathered image 
with grooves like wrinkles 
on tired skin.
I’m sorry that I’m still sad, darling, but it’s hard to move on.
I can’t walk in the supermarket without remembering your smile in the cereal,
Or remembering your laughter in the shower gel,
And the bars of chocolate, which you would so ardently plead for,
And I wish I let you scoff them all,
For your tongue did not taste enough cocoa in your delicate lifetime;
I hope you are gorging yourself now. 
The house is so silent now,
Apart from the nights where I can hear your footprints on the stairs. 
Your muddy hands still stains the walls from when you galloped around after...

you were music to me

you were music to me 

your eyes were the gentle violin strings singing sweet notes as you gazed at me with your major chord smile and bright keys. 
your voice was a symphony; every instrument imaginable as they tussled and tumbled like little kids in a fresh snow. the harmonies were excellent; i wanted to sing along but oh darling, my voice was out of key.
such music needs to be protected. kept away in locked boxes for crotches and quavers contained within sepia sheets. such music needs to be controlled. yes, it needs a composer. 
i could feel my heart; a rapid staccato in my chest. we danced to our collapsing duet: it was out of key, out of key... discordant, clashing, minor and major trying to fumble along but our fingers got twisted; heart strings break...
a smashed guitar at my feet. me, licking the sweet melody off my fingers. stuck vinyl.


No woman has an abortion for fun.

I would walk out of school to protest against the illegal ruling of abortion, but it’s been legal in the UK since 1967 and it’s not going to change so I guess my work is done. Because the people in power recognise that making abortion a criminal act goes against human rights, and only leads to unsafe abortions and heightened death and unhappy lives. No ones likes abortion; that’s why doctors have to approve abortions before they’re operated and those who sensibly choose to go through with it are affected but know they have made the right decision. Instead of criminalising it, why not provide more sexual education for those who have sex too early because, according to the education system, gay sex doesn’t exist, and promote understanding of sex in a society still prude and clinging on to stupid terms like ‘purity’ and ‘virginity’. No one likes abortions, but they’re necessary in extreme circumstances.

This Isn’t What Music Is Meant To Be

The air was thick with the smell of cigarette smoke and my mind was thick with terror. My limbs were like lead: fingers tree trunks defying the roots that manipulated and controlled like puppet strings. My fingers were not dancing over the keys, they were dragging themselves; this was not music. This was wrong. 

The uniformed officers were chatting in such a jovial major that I was jealous of their melodic keys. They knew how to orchestrate such beauty: the beautiful woman, the beautiful laughs, the beautiful drinks like oil wells at their hands. 

From time to time, one of them would look over at me before gazing pointedly in the direction of the people huddled in the corner: shrouded in darkness with pale faces and baggy clothes. They thought we were disgusting: aliens with our different lives and different religion. How disdainfully they stared at us like muck on the bottom of their polished shoes. How I loathed them....

Nervous System

You stimulate me:
touch, taste, eyes, ears, nose; consume.
You make my skin crawl.

Film Review Competition 2019


Brace yourselves. I’m going to talk about one of the most shocking, complex, controversial & dangerous films of the last century: Fight Club. Released in 1999 and directed by David Fincher, as a recent viewer I was able to draw correlation between the pre-Millennium world and society today, encouraging me to further explore the different themes. From the problem of emasculation to the cyclical process of consumerism, this short film review will hopefully take you through the chaotic veins of this movie.

First: the characters. Edward Norton stars as The Narrator: a washed out, tired, white-collared everyman who works a repetitive job. In trying to find an escape from his insomnia, he utilises the suffering of various support groups and poses within them to unlock an emotional high.

On a business trip, he meets Tyler Durden (Brad Pitt). Wearing a blood red jacket, bold shirts and spitting out bold phrases, The Narrator as well as the audience are entranced by...

Honey, The Attraction Is Undeniable

Let’s go up in flames,
Your love makes me a Phoenix,
Rise from the ashes.

Say Hello To My Main OC, Rustin!!

Rustin Byrd didn’t know at what time he awoke or at what time he went to bed. Most days started in this manner: blearily blinking in the hazy mess of his study, strewn across a chair or occasionally curled up amongst his papers and drawings on the wooden floor. Not the most comfortable of sleeping arrangements but he never managed to go upstairs to his proper bed: it was rarely slept in, except for those lazy days where he put aside his writing and his musings and had a long, long bath followed by dawdling and standing around and letting time tiptoe past him like grains of sand.

Raising his head, he inspected what had been his pillow for the night. There, on his desk, a stack of paper. On the high-quality, recycled handmade parchment were scribbles of poetry. He had thousands of sheets like that: drenched in his thoughts and ideas and emotions. Would he ever get them published?...

all i want for Christmas is consumerism

I got chocolate coins for Christmas,
When all I wanted is money. 
It reminded me of love.
The anticipation,
All for some flimsy golden foil (not even recyclable) 
And chocolate that tastes cheap and like ashes blocking your throat.
I thought about this for a while,
How chocolate goes off in the end,
And goes to that strange state where it’s grey but not quite white and you contemplate eating it and think ‘what’s the worst that can happen?’ 
And then you get salmonella or some other annoying little shit in your body,
And you shit liquid for days straight.
I thought about this for a while, and then I realised
I’d rather have money.

Tiny Love Story

If You Can't Love Yourself How In The Hell Are You Gonna Love Somebody Else?

It's been a while since I've looked in the mirror. 

I was always ashamed of what I saw - my body was not like the ones in all the magazines; my skin not smooth, my stomach not flat, my hair not glossy and my teeth not straight. 

It hurt to see such ugliness staring back at me. 

But now, I stand in front of my reflection and look myself in the eye. I am not my flaws: imperfection doesn't exist. I am a good person who has many good qualities, and the world does not define me. 

"I love myself."

Film Review Competition 2019


Brace yourselves. I’m going to talk about one of the most shocking, complex, important, controversial & dangerous films of the last century: Fight Club. Released in 1999 and directed by David Fincher, as a recent viewer I was able to draw correlation between the pre-Millennium world and the society we see today, striking me and encouraging me to further explore the themes within the different layers of the film. From the petty problem of emasculation in a world obsessed by expectations to the cyclical process of consumerism and free-thinking, within this short film review I hope to take you on a startling ride through the veins of this chaotic movie.

First: the characters. Edward Norton stars as The Narrator: a washed out, tired, white-collared everyman who works a repetitive job. In trying to find an escape from his insomnia, he utilises the suffering of various support groups and poses within them to unlock an emotional high.

There, he meets Marla...

Toilet Haiku

I’m on the toilet
I have been for ten minutes
No point in rising 

bottling it up led to mould on the walls and ice in my eyes

It drips through the cracks in the ceiling, product of a neglected you left running.
It climbs down the walls with spindly fingers and sneering lips,
droplets;tears;shackles of ice that catch your skin in winter chains. 
The days are long and dark.
Frost blinds your eyelids; long nails, hang nails. 
The hats and the scarves and the gloves do nothing but suffocate and shove down your throat
the eternal winter; batteries taken out of clocks to let the hands stand still.

Alas, seasons change. 
Time keeps ticking regardless of your numb fingertips.
Loosen your tongue. 

The Key WOTW#7

For too long you have suffered, mouth sewn shut. 
For too long you have been broken, heart cracked. 
You're in the bathroom now, clutching at your
torn dress; rips like earthquake shattered ground, plate
margins critical. Combustion. Eruption. 
Rivulets of pain unfurling on porcelain skin,
like the doll of your childhood that you shattered and broke.
Now you are the discarded toy, (PLAYTHING) except the ground bruises you,
and the knuckles cut and draw blood like the fallen leaves of autumn decay. 
A sob scratches in your throat; record player dusty with misuse. The note is caught; choked,
repeating and repeating with no end and no silence and no freedom. 
No one can save you in your high tower, for the dragons guarding it are fire breathing and fierce and have hands and hearts so callous and unrelenting. 
But you, 
You are not a damsel. 
You don't have to stand for it. 
You have a voice.

You are the key. 

i see you in the sky, i see you in the grass

ancient philosophers used to believe everything was made up of the four elements: water, earth, wind and fire. an old concept, sure, but i can see their winds of logic swirl and breathe in every fibre of your being. 

the earth holds sanctuary within your bones, the vines of sweet embrace crawling through your veins. your fingertips bloom flowers wherever they linger: i want you to etch tulips and daisies into every freckle and stretch mark and every scar. make a garden of my imperfections. 

water is your blood, flowing around and surging with the life force that stretches to every corner of your heart and soul. emotions ebb and flow in the tides of your passions, the heart a moon to maintain the depths. let me explore the uncharted corals. 

your voice is air, carrying me like a kite into the sky. but i don't want the boring horizon, i want you: you are my oxygen and hold more...

the worst sentence #myfirstcontest

“It’s okay, I’m used to it.”

I’ll Kill For You, I’ll Die For You

It was raining. 
The water flooded down as if the gods themselves were shedding a tear for the crimes of the night, but no matter how hard it poured, the blood could not be washed away. 
“Woman. 24.”
The body was grotesque. The head was caved in because of a short range bullet. Quick, painless.
The detective whistled and drifted into silence, kneeling down and inspecting the woman’s face. “Suspects?”
“Not a suspect as such… The man who found her: her husband. Married 5 months ago.”
“Is he here?”
The man was led over to the two detectives, his head bowed. Tears had marked rivulets in his harrowed features, a certain pallor settling into his skin. Eyes dark, he raised his head to look at them, biting his lip so hard blood started to ooze down his chin. 
“Hey… Careful there.” A blanket was embraced across his shoulders and he was strategically manoeuvred so he was faced away from...

A Pair of Poems

The Heart & The Mind

Wild, unpredictable: a mad scurry like the staccato best of dance floor mania. Jerking; twisting; writhing limbs that convulse and sing to the desperation of its personal melody. Uncontrolled, it runs free; a kite with no anchor or direction to its sail. The heart is a powerful weapon, but maybe it needs a breath of wind to set its course. 

Steady, sure. A tightrope walker with feet secure on the thin line over the abyss. Breaths are slow. Nothing moves. Even the hands do not twitch. To be teetering on the brink of chaos and to not have a forehead beading with sweat is the predominance of the mind. But sometimes... it too yearns to fall.

let her burn! #fire

I am tied to a post at the bottom of which a fire is burning. 
I can smell the smoke as I writhe and wriggle but in the end there is no escape - my hands are bound and my mouth is tied; knitting needles sewing thick wool in and out of my lips. 
Is that blood burning a path down my chest or is it the fire getting a little bit excited? 
I can hear the crowd cheering as my feet are engulfed.
The fire likes the attention. 
It roars on like madness; dancing in earnest to a tune only it can fathom. 
It whispers to me as my flesh turns charred and acrid. 
It whispers my failings, all my regrets, all my remorses:
a cold cacophony of defeat
it hurts now...
the fire is curling around my throat like a noose i should be dead, right? 
i should be long gone by now but yet the crowd...


dj, hear me cry

1. Come On Eileen, Dexys Midnight Runners
What can I say? As soon as this comes on you're grabbing my hands and spinning me around with that beautiful smile on your face and that joyful laugh rising in your throat. The beat rises with my heart as you remind me to live instead of just exist. You make me feel brave. We danced in front of everyone on that Bonfire Night with our cheeks flushed and our eyes reflecting the sparks that danced in the air. I felt invincible. 

2. Candy, Robbie Williams
Remember this absolute bop? We would jump on your mum's bed when we were the only ones home and pretend to be old when, in reality, we should've been cherishing our innocence. When did spy games turn into makeup challenges? When did climbing trees turn into climbing your walls and inscribing our crushes behind your wardrobe? When did reading Biff and Chip turn into sneaking a glimpse...

Warning, Fragile #warning

Warning, fragile.
Emblazoned across his chest like an Amazon delivery box, 
but what is inside this little mystery? 
He wanders - black shirt, black jeans, piercing a rapid flash of fire upon his tongue.

He hates the label pinned to his skin but he can't get it off. 
He scratches, rips, tears, clutches and 
rubs like sandpaper across his skin but it remains;
the shattered memories of his past that haunt him like blood thirsty wolves the growls follow him through 
the night and the shadows of his pain linger on his skin like ink 
he has been hurt 

it hurts it hurts it hurts 

he's been misunderstood 

it hurts it hurts it hurts 

and each dawn 
each ray 
of sunlight 
breaks him all over again. 

f r a g i l e. 

Extraordinary in the Ordinary

The Universe is in Pages

Dusty spines and crinkled pages
hold within them the whole word. 
Black spider scrawls of ink the sunrise for a thousand new dawns. 
Cultures and people and lives swirling and twirling;
a woven picnic basket filled with summer joy. 
Tears of sadness and jubilant cheers,
I thumb the emotions of a thousand lives 
and feel the elements spill between my fingers 
like ambrosia of the gods. 

Open Prompt

Not Part of Your War

d     d     d
r     r     r
i     i     i
p     p     p

the tears, the blood...
they splash on to the ground...
muddy puddles thrown up by eager wellingtons. 

they fall up;
a child being swung by giggling parents 
the wound a gaping smile upon lips. 

it hurts, the pain new
cries falling upon deaf ears 
the roar of party hooters and crunches of party food I-

stop. look around. 
the dying are still dying.
they march by and do not care. 

khaki stained, guns dancing,
smoke in the distance the dancing ghost of young souls and 
young hearts and young minds. 


d     d     d
r     r     r
i     i     i
p     p     p

endless. a mantra. 

the civilians begging. 
children screaming. 
they are not part of your war. 

Novel Writing Competition 2018

The Gods Have Abandoned Us (excerpt)

 Looking back, Rustin didn’t know what possessed him to let her in. Whenever he heard gunshots he immediately retreated to the room at the end of the house – his study – and drowned his fear in books and paper, trying not to let his tears blot the ink.
From time to time this situation would arise; his house was one of the only ones left standing, yet the security on it was so advanced and the windows bulletproof so nothing could penetrate it. It was his sanctuary as the rest of the world decayed... and his prison. He lived alone, his only company his tortured mind. 
The gangs in the city made havoc; they ruled the dirty streets with falsetto guns and dulled consciences. People would tick them off and they would have to run, and some way or another they ended up at Rustin’s door, begging for entrance.
It wasn’t cruelty that made the 22 year old deny...

Exam Papers

We are burst pens
We are shattered 
Splintered plastic; shrapnel Splintering my skin 
I choke on the ink 
That crawls from my eyes.
The compass is in my throat 
I’m trying to draw a perfect circle 
But I can’t 
My fingers slip, shaking
I claw at my throat 
Calculate the angle of my pain
(Not drawn to scale)
My fingers scramble on my neck 
I rip -
I can’t escape, suffocating
Choked by wrinkled hands 
I look at myself
But all I see are numbers.
That’s all I am to you, isn’t it?

Heroic [A Poem for Armistice Day]

They always ask me if I’m a hero.
if I protected and defended in
the name of king and country. If I loved
the sheer thrill and the fun of the big game.
Oh sure, I tossed the ball of war with mud
splattered clothes and frozen skin with my tears
falling; engulfed by the silence and the
waiting. Always waiting. The darkness roared.
Then, it would happen. The yells. Screams. Fix your
bayonets boys, the final push has come!
The war will be over by Christmas! Back at home with the family.
You’ll be a man! No cowardice for us (You’ll be shot for cowardice! At dawn!)
We’re soldiers we’re strong we’re brave and unflinching and relentless and thoughtless we shoot and we maim and we kill and we win we-
‘Daddy, were you a hero in the war?’
Of course I was. My country needed me.
Mum said I was...


you were not the warmth of summer, 
nor the growth of spring.
devoid of the colours of autumn,
without the sharpness of the cold of winter.
neglected from all seasons, 
you raged relentless, 
a blank canvas, 
empty for anyone to tarnish. 

Novel Writing Competition 2018

The Gods Have Abandoned Us (excerpt)

 Looking back, Rustin didn’t know what possessed him to let her in. Whenever he heard gunshots he immediately retreated to the room at the end of the house – his study – and drowned his fear in books and paper, trying not to let his tears blot the ink.
From time to time this situation would arise; his house was one of the only ones left standing, yet the security system on it was so advanced and the windows bulletproof so nothing could penetrate it. It was his sanctuary as the rest of the world decayed, and his prison.
The gangs in the city made havoc; they ruled the dirty streets with falsetto guns and dulled consciences. People would tick them off and they would have to run, and some way or another lots of them ended up at Rustin’s door, begging for entrance.
It wasn’t cruelty that made him deny them – as he tried to tell himself –...


A slight asphyxiation;
A pressure on the chest,
A flash amongst the darkness,
Trying to rise above the rest. 
A tempest of horrid faces, 
Screaming in the gloom,
Façades of gentle homeliness,
All around they loom.
Let me out! 
Let me be free! 
Let me fly and soar and sing and shout, 
And be all I can possibly be! 
But that is not possible,
For there is something inside,
Something charred and horrid and snarling with spite,
Something I would like to hide. 
Can you hear it growl in the gathering dark? 
Using the shadows as a cloak? 
See it eyes leap into sight,
As you slowly start to choke? 
Now you know what the pressure was,
The haunted you all your life,
The soulless thing that crept in your mind, 
(That everyone has but not everyone harnesses, the whispers in the subconscious, the dark the dark the dark the dark the fear the fear the fear the truth the...


I feel overwhelmed sometimes. 
I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of voices,
playing counsellor to all the cries and tears and 
wading amongst it all to help and direct the gossip.
Sharks swim next to me and I can't keep up;
my smile stops the waves from crashing down on everyone. 
A conductor with too many instruments to direct -
the music washes over me
and I choke on the notes. 

the dark side of the moon

We danced like the planets in a quiet nightclub in a quiet town.
The music faded into nothing and I seemed to lose my definitions.
It was just me and her
a w a y 
from it all. 
I had no name, no job, no worries or fears. 
In her arms, I was invincible. 

She always called me her sun; the centre of her universe. 
I shone and she bathed in my happiness, 
hoping to soak up all the golden goodness. 
I joked and called her my moon:
the enigma, the one without a smile but instead a knowing smirk 
and an intelligent mind who could make me feel everything - 
she controlled my tides and all the ebbs and flows of my 
I was radiant. I was her sun because she made me that way. 

Pink Floyd daydreams and echoes of another generation, 
yeah, she made me live everything.
Two lost souls, but all I needed was her. ...

#SFOW20 | Beauty is Terror

She was my flower girl. 
She entranced me on one Summer's day with a
smile and a twinkle of her violet eyes. 
Dancing across the pink fields with her skirts
twirling and writhing like a man possessed-
like me. 

How could someone be that elegant?
The sun abandoned the grey horizon 
and the sky burned. Still we went: her graceful,
me stumbling, calling out with an eager 
voice. Her only reply would be a laugh.
She was intoxicating. 

She dripped like honey. 
Sweet, gilded, more. She shimmered like the haze 
over tarmac on a hot day. I was 
blind. Darkness came; the fields looked unfriendly 
and that twinkle in her eye turned wicked. 
She walked toward me. 

Her hands were cold. 
She cupped my cheeks - tear stained - and met my gaze. 
Stroking runes across my flesh as I stood 
frozen and afraid in the hungry night. 
Her breath tickled my cheek as she placed a 
kiss upon...

Turned to Stone

Yet Another Day...

Ring ring ring! Reaching over to turn off my alarm clock, I remembered with a grunt of annoyance that today was another day of school: another day of long lessons and endless socialising. Another day of jostling in the lunch queue and frowning over maths sums. Another day of the same boring routine and endless cycle... It didn't even occur to me that today would be the day I died. 


Do I love you, or do I love you because you love me?



i want

i want to grow flowers from my hands and to make the garden of my body grow 
i want 
to bloom tulips from my scars and make sunflowers from my crooked teeth and grow vines from my stretch marks 

i want 
to scream 
and let all the emotion 
and watch it skip through the air
and i want
to blow it all to oblivion 

i want 
to burn
and burn everyone
because the anger inside demands to be heard but 
i cant let it out 
i want
to be heard
i want to be touched

i want love
i need it
i want someone to gaze at me if as if i were the stars 
and i want someone to trace constellations across my flaws
and tell me 
they think im beautiful

i want 
but i cant have it 
so i shall write the poetry i cannot live
and hope i shall grow

Once the World Was...

Once the World Was Cold

In the beginning, the world trembled cold,
Hence we lay dormant in our frozen tombs,
Watching the earth spin by in cruelty old,
Shivers of frost the sole life in our wombs.
Brittle branches whipped ruthless at our skin, 
The vile puppeteers contorting our limbs,
They laughed at us; the world was grey and thin,
Rocks were thrown, fire was shed; it looked dim.
But then someone hastened a feeble smile,
And helped a child up where they had fallen,
A flower blossomed in their veins - fronds beguiled,
Sun peeped out and thawed the crypts - it brightened.
Once the world was cold but then came kindness,
A laugh is limitless; joy is endless. 

Why I Write

Why I Write

I write to orchestrate the chaos.
The world is loud and overwhelming and controlling but with words I can tame the action and calm the storm. 

I write to mend. 
The world is fragmented and falling and splintering but the words are my glue which I can restore with. 

I write to help.
When my friends are sad; when the stress is getting to them, I can soothe them with my words and to see the healing process is beautiful. 

I write to run away. 
Sometimes I feel like formulating sentences is the only exercise I voluntarily do, since I sometimes need to find solace in this demimonde between reality and fiction. 

I write to change.
Words are a weapon. They can evoke any emotion. They can make people do anything. I write to ensure a better future for myself and those around me and to show that I will make a difference. 

Speech Writing Competition 2018

School Sucks

The education system is shocking. There’s no simpler way to put it! It is far too stressful, far too conforming, far too overwhelming and is ultimately failing to serve its purpose. How many children have you heard actually saying they like school? How many children do you know who eagerly bound up the school steps with no fears or worries about their day? Now ask yourself: how many children cry because of school? How many are too scared to attend? Do you remember how reluctant you were to go every day? The harsh reality is this: n a survey called ‘Emotional Revolution’ and conducted by Yale Centre for Emotional Intelligence and the Born This Way Foundation, students noted they were bored in school 70% of the time, and stressed 80% of the time. How awful is that?
In my eyes, school is all about enlightenment. It’s about gaining an insight into the world around us and learning that, with our creativity...