Hopeless Musing #33



Source: https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/708613322607012767/


Is life just a series of negotiations?

Swapping pain for a different type,

Sacrificing things that shouldn’t be,


For the sake of everyone else?

Closer Than We Think.

A poem.


glares, scares, stares

holding wrists too tight

pushing, hating, shoving

too big to fight.


chairs crashing and screens cracking

dinner plates slammed to the sink

doors locked shut and knelt behind –


violence is closer than we think.



I Wonder.

A poem.


blink and you’ll miss it

life is gone quicker than it comes

i wonder what is in store for us


when we open our eyes again.

Hopeless Musing #27



SOurce: https://weheartit.com/entry/333961481?context_page=3&context_query=plant+photography&context_type=search


Sometimes I wish I could throw my phone away – in an age so hung up on technology, how lovely it would be to send letters to you.

Writing my feelings was always so much easier than saying them, but when they’re stuck on a screen, they don’t feel as real. They become just another another status update, another tweet, another instant message… another meaningless, emotionless stamp in time. Just one button-click away from each other.

But there’s something so much more authentic, when the words on the paper have traveled miles, days and across continents, just to reach you.

I miss handwriting, I miss ink smudges and tear drops and accidental errors, scrubbed out and re-written.

I miss unfolding and folding beloved letters, reading and re-reading, until the paper grew worn and felt like velvet at the folds. I miss seeing the letters and words on pages ripped from books and notepads, that weren’t perfectly typed, but written, scrawled and scarred – imperfectly perfect – a story in a story.

But mostly, I just miss feeling something real.



Hopeless Musing #25



Source; https://www.pinterest.com.au/pin/166422148710607935/


They say dissociation is like watching yourself in a boring movie, hyper aware that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

You’re in your own head, but outside your body – staring at a reflection that you can’t seem to recognize as your own.

But it’s hard being in your own head all the time.

No one else has to hear the million tiny voices inside your head, all saying different things for different reasons at different times. Making you feel different.

No one else would want to know me if they knew the things I kept locked tightly behind a door, nailed shut and set alight, for fear of what might come tumbling out of the void.

My mind moves, but my mouth doesn’t. If only people heard the words I wanted to say. If only what I felt and what I said weren’t on two completely different planets to each other, living completely separate lives.

My facade of self-confidence is hiding a self-loathing so deep I don’t know how to stay afloat. I simply sink deeper into the depths of this unhappy existence, all made up inside my mind – sabotage of the self.

I float in a world where no one else exists, and the smallest sounds echo, and my only friend is my reflection – which doesn’t even look like me.

Maybe one day the person I see in the mirror will be someone recognizable and capable of talking back. Standing up. Having a voice. Able to make waves and swim out of the cave I’m in and back to shore.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to find a home, where the house is warm, and there’s tea on the counter and I won’t have to drown anymore.


This Flood.

A poem.


there’s a pain in my chest when i look at you

like i am tearing at the seams,

being stretched to breaking point, bursting

like a balloon with too much air

or a water tank that has no more room to fill.


it’s almost as if at any moment

my walls will collapse,

and all my doors will burst open

flooding us all, in a thousand different ways

in the form of agony and tear drops.


what a messy way to profess love

i must admit,

but i cannot seem to tell you any other way

and nothing i do is good enough

for you to see me the way i want to be seen.


there are birds that sing outside my window

and they remind me of you,

they don’t know i’m right there listening

as their lives turn golden in the sun,

in ways i could only dream of.


but when you love someone

you let them go,

their happiness is more important

and so i stitch up the seams and turn off the tap

so this flood never darkens your door.

Rust & Regrets.

A poem.


what is left,

when everything is gone?

when the ground collapses

like straw being swallowed by fire

and the sky no longer rises

on our soul?


where can so much love

from a single

lonely heart

possibly have to go,

when there is no body

left to carry it?


who will be left to remember

those things that were left to us,

by the people we loved?

is there any point at all – any meaning in this life –

that doesn’t involve the painful realization

that it’s all just here for a moment, like a dream?


our lives are a moment in time,

imprinted on the earth

like one swift footprint

in the dust,

before the wind stirs us up

and we are gone.


our bodies are destined to rust

and flake,

slowly staining the earth red.


we hold on to precious items –

books, gifts, photos –

all in the hope that we won’t forget,

and maybe one day

someone will hold them

and remember us too.


we run our fingers down delicate book spines,

reading words from the past;

we remember the hope of the souls

who rust around us,

holding their gifts to us tight,

believing they will hold us to this earth just a little longer.


but before long, we too,

are due to be swiftly stirred into dust.

we stare into photographed eyes,

captured in a moment,

wishing for our own moments

to be remembered.


our hearts cave and crumble, knowing our lives are so unrecoverable.


we beg with death to allow us

just one more moment,

to say the things

we wish we had said;

share the things we wished we had shared;

kiss the lips we were never able to kiss.


when death comes for us, what do we have for him?

we bargain our way back to the living,

pleading to let those wishes and kisses be lived out.


what wishes do we really have,

deep in our heart,

knowing they’ll go to the grave?

what moments will we take with us

and simultaneously

leave behind?


we rust, rust rust – oh how we rust –

the colour of leaves in the fall,

stirring dust

just enough

to creep into the lives

of those we leave behind.


the living think regret is for them –

but the dead

are just moments –

and books,

and gifts,

and photos.

Hopeless Musing #21

In Place.


Source: https://weheartit.com/entry/317052550?context_page=3&context_query=floral+bouquet+photography&context_type=search


I cry out to the past in vain, wishing I could bring it back – but it’s gone. It whispers through my dreams and floats around me in memories and smells, but there’s nothing left to hold.

They say sooner or later, the past catches up with you, but the past just seems to drift further away from me, frozen in a moment I’ll never get back – doomed to replay in my mind like a record on repeat.

The past is stuck in place – haunting me with dead eyes staring out of photographs, and movements of strangers on the street that walk just like you. I hear you in supermarket aisles and in my own head, laughing at me, knowing I am always one step behind and one second too late.

If only I could reach out and grab hold of what I need, just one more time, in a place far from here… But instead, you’re just another story I can’t tell anymore.

Hopeless Musing #20



Source: https://weheartit.com/entry/177629737?context_page=2&context_query=circle+flower+photography&context_type=search


They say there’s a difference between having fun and being happy. That feeling sorry for someone isn’t the same as loving them. That being dead doesn’t mean you truly lived.

And maybe that’s just it.

I keep hoping that the unhappiness will go, that I will let go of those I don’t love, and learn what it means to truly be alive.

But I’m coming up short.

Because I know how to live that way. I just can’t live that way with you.

So I keep doing the same things, circling the same route, a thousand times over, even though I know there’s no beginning and no end for us.