breaking dreams

when you realize that there will always be some-one who's better than you at whatever you do. you may think you write wonderful poems and one glance at some-one's compilations makes you shred your work and burn it. you might think that your fashion sense is quirky and individual but then you realize how many people own that artsy studded miniskirt and those pre-torn stockings and you give them away. maybe you can dance; and you see one girl on the dancefloor and you know you'll never dance again because your light won't shine as bright as hers. not in his eyes, anyway. so it takes a downfall and soon you think you're the best at wrecking yourself; destroying your life with a variety of poisons some of which taste oh-so-good; but then you meet a smackhead who's been on the junk for four years and will probably not live if he injects again. you finally try to be the best at dying - and what do you know? you have no friends or family at this point so there is no-one to grieve as your blood seeps into the sheets of the mangy bed you lay on in that dilapidated hovel you call your home.
so just give up - you're a fuck-up anyway.
why try when your dreams will always break?
snap like disregarded shards of mirror dust upon the pavement
mixing with the stench of loneliness deep inside your soul
and you don't belong in this place with these clean, normal people
shrinking away for fear of brushing against your burning skin
skin that burns with sin



wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave; no-one was saved.

Extract of Butterflies: A Short Story

She lay on her bed, sucking a cigarette. It was past midnight but sleep wouldn’t come. The lamp was on, throwing shadows onto her wall. She wasn’t scared though. She welcomed them.

 With a sigh, she got off the bed; the springs groaned as the weight suddenly disappeared. She held the smouldering cigarette between her index and middle finger of her right hand, and walked out of her room into the hallway.

 She walked towards her bathroom, already confident in what she would see. A pale and haggard face would stare back at her from the mirror. Her eyes would look bruised from lack of sleep, and her lips would be dry.

 Ignoring the face reflecting back at her, she mashed her cigarette into the ashtray that was on the windowsill. Stooping down to the sink, she turned the tap on. She splashed her face with ice-cold water, drawing a slight gasp. Droplets ran down her cheeks and under her chin, slowly travelling down her slim neck.

Extract of my novel

My life was a chain of events attached together by the strings my mother knotted together. There was no control. No substance to anything I did. My emotions were cut off from my actions. A puppet hanging off strings directing my body towards a man or a social gathering.
There was always something to prepare for. As a child always meeting new people, crowded by those commenting on my grace or my stature. Or just commenting to be associated with me and my family.
Family, please. Family is treatment of loyalty and intimacy towards the ones close to you. The loyalty was there, just the intimacy was missing. Mother-daughter relationship ceased to exist in my world.
My dresser was filled with useless accessories of expensive makeup and hair products that were never used. Yet she believed they were necessary for face value. Whatever other mother decided to pop in for a spot visit as if we were on display in a mental asylum.

hi.

so this is going to be where you can post your poems, short/long stories, lyrics - basically anything that you've written. you can post quotes or extracts from other people's work if you'd like to share them, although obviously you'd have to credit them.

currently the blog is on public so this means that absolutely anyone with internet access can read it. it can be set so that only authors - as in the group - can view it. perhaps when we get this going a bit more we can decide which we'd prefer. posts can be tagged by author; for instance, if my name is entered in the search bar, only posts tagged as mine will come up. i don't know how many of you have a blogspot or are aware of how it functions, but it's pretty standard to most other blogging platforms.

i'll get the ball rolling with one , although i expect not much will happen until everyone's been added.


'i only have two kinds of dreams: the bad and the terrible. bad dreams i can cope with. they're just nightmares, and the end eventually. i wake up. the terrible dreams are the good dreams. in my terrible dreams, everything's fine...everything's wonderful and normal and fine. and then i wake up. and i'm still me. and i'm still here. and that is truly terrible.' - urania blackwell, dream country; neil gaiman.