When it came to me,

you were the expert.

You knew how to play me perfectly,

even dint and every imperfection,

you knew how to press them to attention,

remind me of their existence,

herd me towards the idea that they held me back,

made me something less than myself,

and that only you could see past them.

I suppose I was not blameless,

I forgot to ask questions,

forgot to challenge the put downs,

forgot that I had legs and arms,

feelings and thoughts,

that the door was never locked

and I was free to walk away at any time.

You only ever thought  you were the expert.

I should have proved you wrong sooner.

Daily Prompt: Expert



For a while I carried words like weapons.

Saw them only for their sharpened edges

the way in which they could slice,

leave mouths open, gasping,

they way they burrowed into skin

and clanged like gongs in the silence

of lonely, sleepless nights.

I had enough scars of my own to show

just how dangerous words could be.

I knew where to aim for,

which veins would bleed the most.



Anger can only burn on a short fuse.

It fizzles out after a while

and you are left cold,

holding knives slick with your own blood.

No one warns out about the energy

that pain steals.

The way the hollowness can swallow


everything you had built of yourself.


Healing takes time.

On nights when I’m awake and he is not

I pick words from beneath my skin,

the ones I half forgot,

scabbed over but not yet gone.

I will turn them over in the blue light

from the wireless router on the night stand,

and try to make sense of a handwriting

not seen in  years.

I will tell myself I am older,


more mature.

I will pretend they do not hurt anymore.


Daily Prompt: Carry


Watcher In The Priory

Stone chested,

I have faced more years than you

and still have not aged a day.

Despite elemental trickery,

the weather has yet to score me smooth

and there are no laughter creases

to mark me out as old.

I have never laughed you see,

at least not while you have watched.

I have passed the centuries

and they have passed me,

and very little has been worth talk,

and all my talk seems little worthwhile

when you and your kind wander

between what is left of myself

and my brothers,

just sitting here in a abandoned place,

no longer considered abandoned

but no longer a place to call home

but a place to see one or twice

before it has been seen and done,

you have bought the t-shirt

and I am of no more concern.


Poem for the poetics night prompt over at D Verse Poets Pub.


Hiding In The Bathroom The Morning After

‘Well you know of course

when you know who closes a door

he always opens a window.’

Except I’ve been eating on too many pizzas,

and I’m not sure the hips puberty gave me

are going to get through that narrow opening

without some serious grazing

and attracting the neighbour’s attention

when he goes looking for the wounded animal

dying over the other side of the fence.

At this point you remind me it’s a metaphor,

that you’re not talking about the bathroom window

above the toilet in Francis? Matthew? Thomas?

Definitely Thomas.

The bathroom window above Thomas’s downstairs loo.

In your eyes there’s no choice but to hike up my knickers

and make the most of where last night got me,

breakfast and all

and perhaps it might turn out

that this window

is less of a window,

and more like a door.


I fancied trying to write something a bit more light hearted tonight. If anyone has any constructive criticism I’d really appreciate it.

NaPoWriMo Day Thirty

Three Steps From The Landing

Three steps from the landing our stairway creaks.

That low, moan of too many years of feet,

one thudding after another,

children, parents, grandparents, ghosts,

always up or down or back and forth.

I forgot the key, to brush my teeth, to do my hair,

handbag, shoes, make-up,

towel for swimming,

trainers for fifth lesson PE,

always one more thing we needed,

one more creak before we could go,

We learnt to skip the step on late night,

early morning,


Unaware that our mother had done the same

once upon a time.

She knew the trick all too well.

So did the stairs.

Aunt Josephine was sure she would go through,

find herself sitting on the pantry floor

looking up at the first floor ceiling

through a hole in the boards.

At the new house there were no creaks,

not whines and shudders as people moved.

It was quiet and neat.

It didn’t feel of home.


That’s it! We are done for another year, NaPoWriMo has officially come and gone. For the first time this month I’ve deviated away from the official prompt and used today’s one word prompt from the Daily Post.

For all of you fellow NaPoWriMoers, do leave a comment and let me know how the month went for you? Did you manage thirty poems, did you have to have any catch up days? Did you skip any all together? What was your favourite prompt of the month?

I always love to hear you lovely people so do let me know how your Aprils went. Here’s looking forward to next NaPoWriMo.