I’m presently locked into a violent and somewhat personal battle with the words which exist in my head. I’ve found most of the relevant ones already, now I’m struggling to rearrange them into an order which pleases me. This battle’s been going on for quite some time, and my associated war wounds are real and…… Continue reading #WritingCommunity
It is the 30th of December and a new year looms. I am still sat, writing crappy poetry and vacillating between numerous unfinished projects. I have the main project, the one I have been working on for three years and have recently sent to my mum for beta reading and comment, as a kind of…… Continue reading Writing, thinking about writing, and de-cluttering my flat.
There was another girl I remember from Fitzmary 2 ward, her name was Eleanor and she was a child of mother earth, connected to the cosmic force like a magnet to a fridge. She was about my age, which at that time was around 25, and I vividly remember the first time I met her.…… Continue reading Eleanor- the girl who sat with trees
Tracy was another inhabitant of Fitzmary 2, the ward I lived on for a year with Christine and various other apparently mad individuals. She was a forked and angular woman, and would only ever wear black. Her whole wardrobe consisted of black dresses and heels, black skirts, vest tops and shawls which she would drape…… Continue reading Tracy- the woman with the crooked black shoes
On Fitzmary two, the ward I lived on at The Bethlam Hospital, I met Christine, the tattooed woman. Her hair was bleached as light as the sun, and her arms, chest, back and legs were adorned with lines and symbols, and the names of the people she had previously known. She had the fairest skin, yet…… Continue reading Christine- the tattooed woman