everyone has a story,
every rose has its thorns.



I look back in wonder
at how I used to be
At my life untethered,
blown about like the waves of the sea.

Happiness I did find,
fleeting and deceiving.
Amplified in solitude were the
Knives, into my heart, plunging.

Unknown to me, patiently
waiting, was the loyal One.
So willing to forgive,
Comfort, till I had no more need to run.

Into the arms of Protection,
Love itself. Anxiety
taken away, and then brought
Peace like a river, forever to stay.


In the midst of all the frenzy and the stress, I can’t help but yearn for mindless procrastination which I satisfy too eagerly, like a mummy bird feeding its young. And at other times I stare at lines of text and figures until the blue on white blur into a jumble of indistinct colour, which I hardly even notice, whilst thinking of moments past. I think of sweet memories, they always come back with sweeter, like they were ripening in my mind, all the negative emotions lost in time. I pull out memories of dreams, sleepily forgotten as the day goes on, sometimes thinking how bizarre they were, sometimes thinking of how I wish they were real, and how real it felt in the depths of slumber, and sometimes at the edge of wakefulness and dreaming, I recall how it actually was a memory.