Out of my mind

Tumultuous turmoil. Chaotic, driving, pulsating anguish. Tossed and turned, pulled and pushed. Jealousy, strife, suicide by knife. Blood stained decisions, pitiful isolation. Lonely, tentative tight ropes of passion. Yearning, discerning, endless harassment. Regretful exclusion, mindless delusion. Blindfolded craving, insatiable thirst. Exploding, shuddering, beautiful earth.  


Carry me

Surrounded by chaos and confusion, I am buried alive in my yearnings and desires. Peeling bells of temptation dull my senses to your voice. 

The ache of my heart for drug incensed moments pushes your love and purity aside. 

Held tightly in the arms of addiction, I am pulled away from your comforting, all encompassing acceptance. 

The wreckage that is my life lies abandoned and deserted, nothing to salvage, a soul not worth saving. 

Where are you God? My father? Lover? Friend? Carry me, soiled and broken, but your child. 


Two trees. One of life, the other reeks of death. 

Both call to me and tug at my vulnerable heart. 

Torn between them, I fight tooth and nail to survive the gnarled fingers grabbing me from darkness. One tentative step towards the light but violently I am forced to my knees in the dirt faced with my selfish wanton desires. 

In the distance pure love blossoms tenderly, singing my melody, seeping into my hungry pores. Calling to me.  Longing to be loved, yearning for affection, I bravely lift my head but am pushed face first into the dust.  

My faithful lover awaits, treasuring my heart, holding it as a fragile newborn baby.  ‘Worship child. Worship’, he whispers. 

A bud bursts inside me as harmonies bring strength to my bewildered body.  Heaven touches earth and angels join in praise as I, daughter,  find Father’s love freeing me from turmoil and indecision.  He will never belittle, never leave, never hurt.  My deep, relentless need for acceptance met in you today. My tree of life. I am Yours, forever. 

The End

If this is love why does it tear me apart, leave me battered and bruised with a battle scarred heart.  

If this is love why is there searing pain, ripping me apart and driving me insane. 

If this is love why am I on the brink with suicidal thoughts that don’t allow me to think. 

If this is love then I’d rather be cold, escaping your clutches, free from your hold. 

If this is love…and I really don’t know…I have to bow out, it’s the end of the show. 

Your love

I’ve heard your love can heal me, and wipe away my tears, fill the gaping emptiness wrought after all these years.

I’ve heard it’s pure and holy, it can reach down to my depths, rescue me from myself and ensuing death.

I’ve heard it stops the bleeding of self inflicted wounds, it can save my life once more, from my self enclosed tomb.

I’ve heard it soothes the ravaged soul and lavish it with balm, rip through my hellish storm, bringing peace and calm.

I’ve heard of your desire Lord, lover of my soul, father, mother, saviour, I beg you make me whole.

I need your love to cleanse me, rid me of wrong desires, keep me burning for you, purify me with your fire.

I want your love. I need it. I crave it.

To run or not to run

I’m considering giving up running.

Today I thought I’d challenge myself and do a 5k in hopefully 30 minutes.

Alas the effect that anxiety has on me meant that I couldn’t breathe properly and I was tired out after less than a mile. I persevered but eventually had to give in and walk.

In the short time that I’ve been running, maybe nine weeks, it has become all about the pace and time.

This is the nature of my personality. Nothing is ever good enough. I have to be better than everyone else. I have to beat my last attempt. I have to challenge myself. I have to. I have to. I have to.

‘I have to ‘takes the fun out of everything. It squeezes the life out, veils the beauty and brings misery and death to all I do.

When I was walking I heard God. I switched my Spotify over to different tunes and I was able to hear Him more clearly. He told me what I already knew except I was ignoring it.

Sometimes you need to walk before you can run. The race of life isn’t all about PBs. It’s about listening.

And I need to.

Will you still love me?

Will you still love me when I’m 90?  You promised me you would. 

When my hands are frail and fragile, I’ll remember those times I held on so tight to yours that you had to tell me to let go. 

When my arms are weak and pale, memories of yours will always send a tingle down my spine. 

My blue eyes will still have much to say as you gaze back at me, hopefully still entranced. 

When my legs can’t teeter in high heels anymore, I’ll close my eyes and think of your hand resting on my thigh. 

As I stroke your face I’ll remember the days your stubble prickled my palm.  

When we laugh because we’ve forgotten the date I know I’ll never forget the crazy conversations we used to have. 

As we look back at the dreams we dreamt, at least we will have each other no matter how they worked out. 

Will I still be your baby girl, as I rest my wise, tired head on your shoulder? 

Will you still love me when I’m 90?  You promised me you would.