Losing Count

I've lost count. I feel like all I do is count...the minutes of the day, the days in the week, the weeks left until another year has passed and I am closer to what I want. It's nice to lose count and it not matter. I'd say 30 at least, 30 hopes and dreams I've sent my details to and will probably end in nothing. At least I'm trying. Trying so hard.
   I'm genuinely uncomfortable right now. Depressed is overly dramatic, upset suggests a fleeting feeling, so uncomfortable is the description I'm giving this situation, uncomfortable and sad. Other than keep looking and trying I can do nothing, which angers me. I want out of this situation. It's unlikely I will ever be eaten alive by anyone, this is the closest I imagine to what that feels like. I am metaphorically being eaten alive, one skin cell at a time, one drop of blood and mucus a day, one chip of bone and gristle with every damn passing week.
   On reflection...uncomfortable isn't a strong enough word...sad and painful. I'd say this is painful. Being eaten alive is painful. I could cry. Every morning I am not being who I want to be I feel that gut wrenching choke as if I need to cry, the way only women ever seem to understand. But I don't. I get on with it. That's another thing we women seem to do, get on and mend. Grit our teeth.
Because so often we don't do what we want to do. We do what we have to do and pretend it's what we want. I can't pretend forever, I can't pretend for a year. I give it until the sky darkens again, the next time the leaves have turned...that's my deadline. Longer than that I'll walk away anyway, despite the weather outside.
Grace?
I Promise.

Valentines Day. Poem

We have a plan,
My heart, it's keeper and I.
Yes we have a plan
that is nothing whatsoever to do with you!
No roses shall wilt on my window
No chocolate will dimple my thighs
No false love shall be shared around
for everyone's benefit, but my heart, it's keeper and I.

We loved each other yesterday,
we still will tomorrow I bet
there is no need, on this one day
to prove, or fuss or fret.
I love you?-yes
you love me-of course!
We don't need a Valentine
My heart, it's keeper and I

christian grey poem

Christian Grey,
what can I say?
You've captured us all
whether with love or disgust
most have admittedly gushed
you're now on the screen
every woman's dream?
I think not
because in this film,
there's no C***

Tired ramblings

I'm forcing my fingers to play the tune of creation against this laptop keyboard, occasionally rubbing my palms up and over my face as if I could wipe away the weariness. I'm tired and it's early, and it's my first free night alone in a while, in my god awful room, behind these god awful four walls. Save for a few half hearted notes during breaks I haven't written my books in over fortnight...I'm already sinking into a glazed-eyed, monotone sound of a heartbeat, thumping like an engine, just running but there's no one driving off down a long un-travelled road-The driver has passed out, having inhaled ten minutes of the fumes that recoil against the four walls and curl in through the open car windows.

   I'm so ridiculously tired, but it's not exhaustion, it can't be....it's more that I'm tired because it's difficult not to just slip into a coma of sleep and waste the remainder of the week away as quickly as possible until the weekend...when I come alive again.

  It's certainly no excuse to have not written in the last passing weeks, no excuse at all. I've let that disappointment and anger push away Grace and that's not right.

   Grace, I made a note about your story the other day. A good one. Such a slow progress, we've been together on and off for the last...?... nearly 7 years. But your story unfolds like the pages of a very old, very secret diary...I can't rush through it because the pages might crumble and all will be lost, I have to trawl through gently, letting the truth come out to me when it's ready.

We have a plan, my heart, it's keeper and I...we have a plan that seems very far out of reach right now but its there, waiting for us to catch up with it. It keeps me awake, in a world where sleep seems to be the most enticing place to be.

The Luxury of Thought. Poem

Sat in the mindless clock that pushes my time away like
an unwelcome lover in the tangle of soiled bed sheets;
   I reflect on my ever changing disappointment.
It moves and morphs from one area of distress to another,
 but although its different,
it's still a disappointment.

And thinking has become a luxury, that
pays for nothing and accomplishes very little,
 yet the only luxury I have.
Would I rather be without thought? A mechanism of action,
 dead behind the eyes and ignorant
of this programmed torment that is average life?
are my thoughts keeping me sane?
or driving me slowly mad?
thoughts remind me of what isn't.
they also offer the smallest escape
 into a world where hope hasn't yet given up
...and packed his bags.