Amateur Writing

Can I write? No. Do I keep trying? Yes.



“Nostalgia isn’t the truth; it’s just something you want to be the truth today.”
Alex is only 19 years old. He is 6ft 1; he has dirty blonde hair; he has green eyes. He has never experienced nostalgia. In fact, he is entirely against the concept of it. Nostalgia is a lie your brain tells you. In reality, you just want an escape from your current moment. Continue reading “January”



A man sits down in his living room chair, his fingers fiddling with an old cigar. In the background an analogue TV is on, but it’s out of tune. Cigar in mouth, he fingers through the pages of yesterday’s newspaper, scanning momentarily at the headlines of war, bombings and potential nuclear explosions. He sighs, and puts it down on the stained coffee table next to a collection of dirty mugs.

Continue reading “Static”

Laughter Is The Best Medicine

You sat in the clinical bed, pale as a sheet but still with a smile sprawled across your face. We used to laugh all the time when you weren’t imprisoned here, we still did I suppose. Continue reading “Laughter Is The Best Medicine”


A hand print left on the steamed up glass door of my shower. It stayed just for a moment, and then quickly filled up until you couldn’t see it anymore. But it stayed there, just like the pain.

Continue reading “Condensation”


You place it back on the shelf, back amongst the collecting dust and deep regrets that you store. It will sit there for a while, until you need it in a few weeks, maybe when you’re lonely and reminiscing.

Continue reading “Ornament”

Heart ache

You break me
and get angry when you
cut yourself on the shards.

Me, Myself, and I

Me, myself, and I.

Me, an imperfect human with a nature to put things off and off and off, until it’s staring me in the God damn face; what am I doing? I’m writing and I’m thinking and I’m forcing myself, I’m creating I’m doing: something. Continue reading “Me, Myself, and I”



I wanted to write about grass today, the emerald leaves that sprout from the earth.
It is the ground’s blanket, the ground’s fur.

Yet every time I started writing my mind would go blank suddenly, and then it would go back to you.

Continue reading “Grass.”

A bench.

A bench, wooden and rickety and always breaking as we pretend it’s a ship, a car, just a bench. My childhood was spent on this bench, it started off as a barrier; ‘don’t go past the benches’ my mother would say, to stop me from wandering too far out of sight. It then was a base for 1,2,3 relivo, it was where we sat to make daisy chains on the green grass, or where we would all pretend wrestle using the bench as an arena. This bench was where I was care free, where I laughed with my friends, with my family, and reality was not a concept I understood.

Continue reading “A bench.”

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