tearing apart old stories like

Performing surgery on yourself

Irrigating veins with ink and brandy

Padding cavities with pages-to-be-trashed

that fell from your fist when you finally fell asleep

re-discovering forgotten manuscripts like

 Excavating yourself

Looking too long and too closely

into the dark parts of yourself you thought

you had chased away with

“Your smile lights up the universe”

scribbling down new ideas like

 What happens when you’re done working on yourself?

Will there be nothing left to say?


Unknown No More

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

-Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

 When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways, William Wordsworth

This poem has stayed with me ever since I studied it at school a few years ago, haunted me even, probably because I identified so much with “Lucy”. That scared me. I’ve taught myself to compress my presence into the least inoffensive, bite-size portions. Even when my attempts at this are not successful, I’ve had people who were more than willing to help me accomplish this feat, glorying in  my stunted self-perception so they could  attempt to shine.


The Lucy act is officially over. Please take your trash with you and head for the exit.


Exit stage permanently, eternally.


Compressing, and moulding, and folding, and hiding; frankly it was getting a little too cramped in here. Time to stretch.