the heart laid bare

Archive

No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
outsider
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

his words

His words make me cold,
Make me hot,
Make me shiver,
Make me bleed with a pain that isn’t mine -
Such anguish.
 
His words of rage,
Of pain,
Of a bitterness deep and raw and shackled.
Feeling given ink and paper form.
 
His words
Blood black on the page
Haemorrhaging in neat lines
Or untidy scrawl? I don’t know.
 
His words
They are his now
He owns them.
 
If they were yours
Would you let them loose?
Allow them free roam to attack the unguarded, infecting with their bite?
 
I wasn’t ready for them
I did not see them coming.
Unprepared
For the way they invaded,
Settled in,
Made me their home
And spawned words of their own.
 
They breed
Like rabbits -
Like cancer.
And where they lie warps
To change your truth,
Your judgement,
A way of seeing yet unseen.
 
They reach inside,
Haul out the monkey,
Put him behind the wheel
And sit back to enjoy the ride.

© mjc 17 April 2007

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, random shit-slinger, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.