We flee to the bedroom, the study, the café;

hounded by foreseen fears.

We don the writer’s robes and gaze pagewards,

deep into ourselves:

upon the mind’s fraught fields in their untamed splendour.

A sea of grasses jostle and jeer, the oppressive mass

of ever-growing anxieties, until we beat them back

with a black ink scythe in hand.

We tread on ink-soaked soil where

once greenswards thrived,

horrifying and natural.

We stain page after page in perilous rhythms,

pining for release, for a tepid moment of control,

lest lasting legacy never flower

as our fears of failure do.

Recent Posts

See All

Plague of Inaction

Do we ever know what that something is? That adjective that’s utterly indescribable, that verb that can’t ever be put to work, that noun that remains…a stranger. But yet it’s in our core, a core of r

Oh Dear, you loser.

Tragedy. Do you feel how truly awful it is? Do you not feel embarrassed? Do you not feel… at least the slightest bit awkward? Or like you resemble the worst of your blood. Do you not feel at fault? Fo