thought leak

what is the point
of this day-after-daily-grind
work pain sleep (badly) pain work
this question swims
round my mind
and this pain
is woven through everything
and the guilt with the pain
that I moan so
when it could be worse
and it’s not so bad I catch my breath
but the pain and not-enough-sleep
and hormones
and work-stress
colours all my thoughts
and easily I slide
from pain to guilt
to snowball rolling fast
I am not good enough
not positive enough
not nice enough
not … enough
and down we go
and tears
and tears
and you standing
no words
just a hand brushing tears
and tears
and I think
if I could just sleep for a day
or if I could just get that X-ray
or if I could just take your pain away
it would all be alright
but I can’t
and the thoughts tumble
round and round
and I sit in silence
without a single word to say
that won’t unleash a storm


For too long
I have pretended
To be something I’m not

Ever since
I was a small child
I felt I had to be perfect

I am not

I am far from it
But this is not about
Putting myself down
This is about being myself

I’m done with pretending

So yeah,

I tried to be a good girl
But I didn’t feel good on the inside

I tried to be as clever as my sister
But it just wasn’t in me to be that smart

I tried to please you both
But I let you down and disappointed

I tried to believe in your god
But I’m sorry I do not have that faith

I tried to be a good wife
But our marriage wasn’t working

I tried to put up with things
But my heart was broken and dying

I tried to fix it all
But some things cannot be fixed

I tried to act all normal
But the darkness takes me sometimes

I tried to be sweet & demure
But the truth is I swear like a sailor

I tried to have a perfect house
But I’m messy and a hoarder

I tried to conform and hide
My poetic side away
But here I am writing my truths
Saying what I want to say

I am me

And what I am is good
Not perfect

No more pretence
No more guilt and striving

This is me



Ponderings on Church Bells

The bells ring
At the village church
Reminding me
With guilty start
That there are
Things I should
Be doing
Not lying
In bed reading poems

And smothered
Reminders of
Other guilt pangs
Because I hear the call
But I ignore
And reject the childhood
Years of Sunday
Best and twicely
Visits to “God’s house”

If he is not a myth
I doubt he dwells
In man made boxes
With stupid rules
And fakery
Which claims to be love
But tastes of judgement

If he is here
He dwells in hills
And trees and mountains
And breath of sky
And feel of air on skin
And in the invisible
Sensation that some things
Are meant to be