A Little Bit Of Sunshine

I bought a set of paint the other day You couldn't tell me, with my acrylic set That I wasn't Da Vinci undiscovered yet Of course, I only have a single painting to my name, It was a sunset by the seaside  Pink and red skies  And ocean waves crashing on the shore.  It was probably the best thing I ever made  But I gave it away on Christmas day...  It was worth it for the look of awe  on her face. 

Just seven more washing machine minutes And I'm free to go about my day Run a few errands, see to the hydrangeas growing on the driveway  and the chilli pepper tree by the gate Then I'll see if everybody ate, and set the table And wash the plates Just seven more and I'll have the rest of the day Except – sweeping the dust that accumulates  Every hour on the hour It'll only make sense then, to take a shower  and pore over my wardrobe for suitable attire  Wrangle up a hair tie And the minutes are sure to fly Just seven more and I might feel genuine warmth if I'm lucky Seven minutes and I won't have to worry if anyone could love me Seven minutes and I'll be worthy...  Sometimes seven minutes and eternity  Are the same thing. 

While I've always appreciated the art of filmmaking, I am no longer a cinephile. What started out as a healthy interest, analysing dialogue and characters, quickly turned into a superficial fixation with what was or was cinema.  Watching movies is a social hobby. We watch movies to speak about them, share them with others and maybe write a quirky caption on Instagram. But because it is a social activity, as a cinephile, your opinion on movies (whether you're aware of it or not) is largely influenced by what other people think. I felt like I had to like certain kinds of movies or I wasn't intelligent or interesting enough. My list of favourites was a curated, bald-faced lie. But you don't know this, until you ask yourself... What do I genuinely enjoy? What are the movies that give me joy, that I can watch over and over again?  They don't have to be 'smart', layered or critically acclaimed. They just have to mean something to ME. No one else. Perhaps they remi...

  And pots fit into each other in neat little stacks Each one part of a matching set Doing what they were meant to do Who could conceive of that?  But we struggle to make space  for each other To be a unit, thinking for the other's best If we could be like pots... Empty and selfless  Existing only to serve others

I didn't prepare a speech or anything My life was planned so meticulously Until Brighton Beach ruined everything I signed my name on a form asking for volunteers I needed a change of scenery and found  myself here Helping people through their trauma  and fear And who is this that emerged from the shadows, perfectly at home Among the broken But myself, the shy and un-outspoken?  I always said I wanted to make a difference  in the world  And honestly, the view doesn't hurt

Artists and their funny ways All we do is spend our days In pajama pants thinking up ideas And plans that we never carry out But they're still nice to think about And we take stuffy jobs  just to cover the cost  Of meandering about, lost But at least we can write about it A new entry in our journal or our turn to read in the poetry circle At the café down the street We're grumpy old hats,  barely making eye contact  And we're thankful for that. 

It was the thought that I could do anything Be anyone That frightened me most of all Misery, I could weather Diappointment, I'd come to expect But greatness is a fear I ain't conquered yet

A hag and a half You school your scowl into a laugh Lips set at half-mast,  you lift your foot off of my chest Just enough to let in a breath  To keep my heart beating ever so slightly  And carve out a meager existence A little life...beneath the grime of your shoe

I've always had the threat  of losing my little life held over my head With a paring knife...  which I always thought was the cruelest of blades Efficient, brutal Devastatingly beautiful...  And there I was, dangling from its lovely handle And I thought, why was I so afraid to fall? Maybe a little life is no life at all. 

If the statistics are to be believed, the 'blog' is becoming obsolete. Doomed to join the fate of the magazine, slowly gathering dust on a distant shelf.  It was with triumphant glee that the ' blog'  took its place. "The hottest news and fashion trends at the tips of your fingers. All the features of a magazine, on a single web page." Call it poetic, then, that blogs will soon meet a similar fate. People aren't typing URLs on their internet server anymore. They're googling the information they need and tapping the first option they see, never to return again. Forcing blogs to churn out search-friendly content and lose their original intention: Individuals logging their thoughts and experiences to attract regular readers. Still, blog platforms are still active and preferred amongst readers and writers.  But they're dramatically outpaced by bite-sized and short-form mediums of content: the Instagram explore page, Tiktok and YouTube shorts. It's ...

Letters, to me, have always been a kind of currency. I feel *rich*  when I hold a letter. Someone's heart and thoughts poured out on paper, for me to explore and hold with care. It’s all about connection. How a string of words can join two souls across the world, across colour, culture and creed. I know how heavy and costly a simple sheet of paper can be. So, if you ever need to scream quietly  or share a theory, lament about the weather... Maybe you just want to shout into the abyss and know someone is listening. Or talk just to talk and delight in the echo of your own voice.  Here is a chamber with very few walls: Write me a letter, and I promise to hold it with care. Send me a letter, and my own will be halfway there. 

There's a beast living inside the walls Of my home It feasts on misery, and the tears We muffle in our sleep But what it particularly likes to eat Is ice cold fear It is always hungry, and we are always empty scrambling to keep it satisfied I dare not ponder if it ever had my eyes If its gruesome fangs were once a smile What is an gaping hole that needs needs needs If not a broken soul who bleeds bleeds bleeds?  We shrivel up, cold and defeated Crawling beneath the debris It hugs our feet and says welcome home - The cycle of abuse is complete. 

Do not be afraid to be extraordinary  To bite the hand that beats you Do not concern yourself with who burns In the blaze of your glory Do not be sorry.  Do not be polite about your inner light For the mourners will come all at once  Demanding a song to play all night  Do not live an unfulfilled life just to be buried with the wordsa "At least she was perfectly nice"