Amateur Writing

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


Interrupted Connection

Scattered apologies,
withered flowers, a box of chocolates.
That is what you offer me the day after.
I return to you a weary smile
a £200 watch and
4 long years of my life.
You put the watch amongst your
mismatched socks.
Continue reading “February”



My mind feels like the end of a firework,
the slowly fading crackle.
Continue reading “Ablaze.”



“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”

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