i bruise: A Poem

those tasks that are really difficult / which require effort / i am no longer resilient / i mind / i bruise / i no longer work shit out for myself / unravelling all the knots /

when i attempted a task / steps forward / it felt like i stumbled instead / and twisted an ankle / one perceived mistake by myself / my self-esteem suffered / muffle weakness under what numbs / as a distraction /

then a task pops up / it feels important / like an opportunity / think – maybe i should try to figure this out / as i work / remember – how it feels / to achieve something / to feel hope again / and not be fearful of it /  i could ask for help / be mindful / to make a mistake – is to gather stones / to build the foundation / to try and try / build – until the sun begins to shine through


i was attempting to write a poem here on making mistakes and be allowed to also ask for help, if you are stuck on something. That’s a broad spectrum of ‘things’ i don’t really like this poem. It needs work. It was one of those poems that needed to be written at the time.


The muse, depression, and writing.

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There are writers I have spoken to that have confirmed this, as well as from my own first hand experience, our minds are always ticking over. We are writing stories in our heads as we brush our teeth, travel on the Tube, eat our lunch, put out the bins, watch television, and so on. As a poet I am puzzling over titles, over used cliché alternatives, end lines, or chewing over the niggles of new inspiration, trying to join the dots, and mould words into something coherent.
So if it were to gradually recede, or to suddenly stop, when the hubbub dims it can seem that the dreaded writers block has hit. I don’t believe in writers block. I think when we hit a rut in our lives seemingly everything begins to unravel, depression sets in, and your mind is far from putting bums in seats, pens to paper, and fingers on the keyboard. You have to nurture the part of you that wants to write, that wants to live on a deeper level. You have got to find a way to feel alive again. When you fee the sharp ends of every one of your five senses, you start to imagine the possibilities, and what those possibilities can become.
I like to walk, to be with nature, to feel the wind, to smell the air of a wood, to hear the faint noises of the roads encompassing the green space.
I like the movement of travel, of going on the Tube, the rush as the train approaches, the swish of the doors, and the crush of people, the discomfort of it all.
That is what gets my muse singing, and then it as easy, and as difficult, as putting bums in seats, pens to paper, fingers on the keyboard, and writing. Even if it is a string of choice words, get the cramp out, and enjoy the sensation of writing again, being immersed into something that is entirely your own creation.


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