Conversations with Demons

You’re alone?

I wonder why…
Could it be because you try,
no one likes a heart that cares.
That hearts that wins, is the
heart that’s shared.
Could it be your face, your voice,
your hair?
is it that your heart is bare?
Ripe, scarred, bitter, broke,
you want to love but you just choke…

Again and again, it just repeats,
what you sow, you never reap.
Caring is over-rated, that’s what they say,
but that’s all you have so I can see the dismay.

You’re alone, don’t wonder why,
it’s not their problem,
and that’s the only reason you cry.
It’s me, me, me…that’s what you say,
much as they deny it,
it’s why they don’t stay.

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The Checklist

Tick, cross, cross, tick, 

Check-listed moments, 

a notification of failure, 

recognition – of the wrong sort? 

Misunderstood intentions…somewhat intentional? 

Replaying, again…again. 


Static moments, devoid of context, 

Just words, just people. 

Still it matters – a failure. 

Alone, are you alone? 

the constant companion, 

always whispering. 


Scale of one to ten, 

tell us what you think, 

grade yourself. 

Will you, won’t you? 

Say no, that’s what they want –

the only place that does.

Reconsider, foolishness, 

to reach out, do you have to say yes? 

Understand. HEAR ME.

Didn’t say yes. 

Screaming inside. 

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That Dream

There’s that person,

He was like a dream. 

So perfect, it hurt – so unrealistic

I could have cried. 

Made the mistake of heeding pretty words, 

accepting an embrace never deserved. 


These are the best people to love:

don’t exist except in fairytales, 

he’s like waking up from a fantasy,

I cannot mourn a dream. 

In my heart, I know he was there,

my presence was never in his.


I’m a better person from knowing you,

weaker for having loved you.

I acknowledge your imperfections,

but moments of beauty I’ll always,

always remember.

Scattered scars form your name,

I wish I wasn’t so weak.  

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I want to live a life of beautiful things,

and beautiful people,

of love, and laughter,

To be free to linger after,

everyone else has sighed goodbye.

I want perfection in moments,

a sprinkling of kisses,

memories made from sepia tones.


I’ll wear flowers in my hair,


I want the cliches, cuddles, contradictions,

Find a meaning in everything, argue until you see passion,

Show me a whole fleet of disappointment.

Breathe emotion into the most listless words,

question all that is and all that I say,

frustrate me.


Give me clarity in swift glances,

Let me be light hearted as I walk through a crowd,

of faces that tell me there is failure.

Write a bucket list of meaninglessly beautiful things,

envelope a shining soul,

go far.


Run away, hide away,

be a storm that’s always passing,

but hesitate in my heart,


Selfishly, unknowing…

let me pretend,

that life can be as perfect,

as the one I’ll watch,

go far.


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Anxiety and Admiration

I’m sitting in a room that is almost unreachable. Not physically, metaphorically. There are people in life that have an astounding beauty to them. The way they are, the talent they exude…the amazing things they breathe life in to. That’s why it’s unreachable. How do you connect with people who seem to live on an entirely different level of existence when you sit in a room with them? They’re all doing it without meaning to, and I can’t help but watch rather than want to try and create something too. Or, maybe they mean to. It’s definitely intentional, but I don’t feel they are attempting to make me feel excluded. I do all of this on my own. My awkwardness isn’t very good when in situations like this. 

My fascination is immeasurable. Not only can I see the inter-personal links but I can watch something lovely come into being. When I get there, they’re playing music. Not like my other friends, the hi-fi, stereos blaring music. They’re actually playing. One of them is stroking the keyboard with a nice level of ease, looking to the boy on the guitar. They work together, anticipating one another’s next move. If you could draw the connection between them, I see it as a blurry purple rope. It flickers and flashes, and as they gradually fall into a rhythm it comes further into being. Maybe it’s just me being the strange person that I am, but it’s a warm atmosphere. It’s always been like this, finding it easier to see how other people feel about one another than understanding the reactions to me. So, rather than actually attempt to involve myself properly, I merely beg for the use of some paper and sit down on the sofa away from most everyone else. 


I make the awkward mistake of asking to draw something, borrowing a pencil and pad from the girl who invited me. As I open the pad, I realise it is almost entirely full, and feel slightly concerned that I should not be using it, even though it was offered mere minutes before. I mention the art, saying how nice it is and that I’m going to draw something. The response is the kind I can never understand. She tells me not to draw over her work. I have to say, I’m slightly baffled by that, worried that I give off the vibe of being a desecrater of others’ artwork. It’s at that point that I start to panic about attending the afternoon, even though I’d worried about it all day beforehand. Mostly, because she didn’t invite me. Our mutual friend did, and as such, though she said it was okay…I’m terribly worried that I wasn’t wanted. 


I’m not quite sure how to deal with this so I just draw something and mostly watch the others. I manage to annoy one of the other girls by borrowing her artpens without asking, unintentionally. The look she gives me makes me feel so small I want to leave, though there’s no real malice behind it. I understand what it’s like to not want people to use your stuff, so I feel so insanely guilty, but my apology doesn’t really seem to be enough. As a result, I’m too worried to talk to her again that evening, aside from when she is leaving.

One of the girls messages another friend and bothers him until he comes over, violin in tow. Thankfully I feel less awkward once he is there, meaning I don’t have to feel quite as bad but still have an anxious edge. I can never tell if they’re all joking or not, which appears to be my issue. I’m trying quite hard to express the fact that I admire them, but it makes me too scared. Added to that, it seems like the better they get to know me, the less they like me. This could be my imagination.

All that can be said is that I’ve never experienced a group like that. I’ve never experienced being so moved by something other people have created that I know. I’ve never sat in a room while a guy in a turtle neck plays guitar, and another in cords plays violin while jamming as they go. It’s what I wish the inside of my mind was like, serene. In the end, even if I had or have no impact, I suppose and I can thankful for being surrounded by people who will do great things. 

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Please, Forget.

In a moment, swept up,

lost in unfamiliar eyes and easy smiles, 

torn from usual identity. 

Few words, pounding impact,

redirected…so quickly,

Ignoring guilt for a perfect fantasy.


Fevered and heated, 

too many kisses, too little screaming. 

Adventurously wander into unknown territory, 

find out the hard way, who is the enemy?


Not now, not you, ripped out whole, 

Voices that no longer belong side-by-side.

Cowardly conduct, expect dishonourable discharge, 

the wrong heart agreed to the firing squad. 

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The Forest Floor.



Keller walks through the tangle of branches and shrubs ahead of me, swearing as he gets caught on the thorns, and brushing dry leaves off his shoulders. I watch as his blonde head bobs along, progressing slowly in front of me; I follow closely behind. I don’t know why he insists on always walking home through the forest, but, I always let him drag me along. You’d have thought after all the years we’d been walking this way that the forest floor would have shown signs of wear, but it was always a jungle to scrabble through.

I have to cling to his muscular arm as I trip and lurch over fallen logs and clumps of decaying leaves that settle in small piles about my feet. I hate the forest, but, Keller just loves it, and always has. He looks back at me briefly, flashing a smile then returned to playing guide through the mass of branches determined to halt our progress through the undergrowth.


Keller is built to be outdoors – unlike me – which you can just see it in him. He’s not exactly tree height at 5’11” but he has a natural build that makes him stand out. He isn’t bulky or overly large either, but just seems solid, immovable. He’s spent so much time in the sun that his naturally mouse brown has become bleached to more of an ashy blond, and he has the kind of skin that just screams ‘I tan because I surf and do manly things in the wilderness’. All of this is something I have grown used to seeing over the years,  the dazzling smile and startlingly green eyes…my best friend in the whole world. Totally solid, dependable, a constant that would never change for as long as my house connected to his in our semi-detached.  

I had known him since I was five, and he’s only two months older than me, so he’s been around for most of my life, really.

“Macey,” he begins, and I know what he’s going to say.

Now isn’t the time, even if it’s the only time we can really talk. It’s not the time, I don’t want it to be time. It always happens like this, when you can’t deal with something it springs on you all at once. My heart begins to hammer in my chest and my blood feels like it’s run cold. Then I take a breath, I try to calm myself but to little avail. It creeps along my fingertips, buzzes on my lips, and begins to shift and follow my limbs. The fuzzy, panicked feeling, which turns to a boiling sensation under my skin. It even hurts. My internal panic is becoming real. Sweat starts to form on my brow and in the hollow of my neck, icy cold. I can’t seem to breathe. 

“Not now, Keller,” I shoot him a pleading glance, I don’t want to go over it all right now. I can’t deal with it, the memories, the hopes and dreams. They come in flashes, almost overwhelming to remember. I know that I’m having a panic attack but it’s never been quite like this. It’s as if everything I’ve been holding back for the past nine days is just about to explode. All these feelings. They all mean so little in the darkness of the forest.

But, then it is dark, it’s so dark. It can’t be that dark.

He’s moving ahead again, his shoulder’s slumped, his confidence to speak drained. I feel the metaphorical gulf between is widen a fraction. 

He’s vanishing out of sight, he’s not even that far away, it shouldn’t be like that. He should be looking at me, it should always be like that. And, I’d see his smiling face.


Except, I don’t, and I can’t move, I can’t breathe, or speak. My eyes fade to grey like the end of a movie, then I’m sure I’m waking up from a bad dream. I can feel the soft pillows under me. They’re softer than I remember. Are they damp from my tears? I’m crying so much, choking sobs, but I can’t feel it. There is nothing but black, I can’t prise my eyelids open to see Keller again. He is gone, but, I can hear him calling, urgently.

Then it’s all gone. Keller, the forest, my bed, my dreams. Me. 

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