Photographs.

I know I kind of disappeared but I'm still writing!
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Finding an old camera stored away,

in a cracked, old leather case.

I blow the dust off its ancient shell

preparing to unearth its history.

 I open the box carefully,

as if I were handling explosives.

I cough and choke as a musky aroma fills the air.

The camera is an antique.  The film still in perfect place ready to take a sudden shot.

I imagine the pictures it has taken, the places it has been and the memories it has seen.

Such memories captured in a single image.

Happy memories.

Funny memories.

Never sad.  

Nobody takes pictures of sad moments.  Those memories stay in our mind, imprisoned forever.

But although most photographs are happy. They aren't real.

They could v'e just been painted by hand.

The perfect smile, prepared and presented.

Then the picture is taken and the smiles fade.

We become human again until the next time.

We keep photographs to remember special times, when our minds no longer can.

Or , to show our pride for our family, friends and achievements.

Each one, a relic that we many pass down through generations

to remind people of our existence.

Intrigued, I lift the camera out of the case and look around for inspiration.

Opposite myself stands a mirror.

My reflection slowly smiles back at me

as I aim and press the trigger.

In many years, I may look back at this piece of paper that portrays a simple image.

Something as simple as finding an dusty, old camera.

A click.

A flash.

A memory. 

“A photograph can be an instant of life captured for eternity that will never cease looking back at you.” 
―Brigitte Bardot

“Still photographs are the most powerful weapon in the world. People believe them, but photographs do lie, even without manipulation. They are only half-truths.” 
―Eddie Adams

Writing poems...

When we want to write a poem

it can be difficult to find

the right words.

We start with a blank page,

an empty canvas;

waiting for us to paint our story

upon it.

Some look for inspiration 

from the skies, the trees, 

the world outside.

Others write from the soul;

pouring out their feelings on paper.

Not all words have to be deep.

Our poems don't have to rhyme.

They could make no sense at all

as long as we let it out.

Because what use is a poem 

              

  if it is lost.

A poem should not mean.        But be.        -Archibald MacLeish

Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of of cheese.
		-G.K. Chesterton

Behind walls.

How can buildings stand so tall and proud

when they are home to a species of such evil?

Their architectural walls deceive those who 

pass by, totally unaware of the inhabitants inside.

An empty house could stand for many years

unnoticed and ignored.

Yet it could be holding an eternal secret

which may never be discovered,

as the walls eventually crumble

and become the dust of the earth.

Some may stand noble and attractive,

yet their owners may be swines.

Those that go unnoticed,

fitting in

with each other; 

a clone to the house next door.

The residents attempting 

to be perceived as 'normal'.

Lines of streets, clusters of villages.

Everyone locked away, hiding their secrets,

whilst they prepare to betray the outside world.

Dishonest people. 

They become two different portraits of the same

mind, on the opposite sides of a door.

A leaky roof, broken windows,

vintage wallpaper pealing off the damp walls

revealing memories and stories

which remain forgotten.

Humble people, scientists and writers

disappear with time 

as the walls which once held their secrets

collapse and dissolve before their

true stories can be discovered.

Marble, I perceive, covers a multitude of sins. 

― Aldous Huxley

Listen to me monkey man..

If you choose to control me, mess with my mind

I won’t complain.

Just let me hear the music, let me feel again.

No one else can hear you, I’l lock the pain inside.

I’ll hide your secret safe away,

whilst you control my mind.

I’ll slip into the darkness

beneath the icy depths.

Behind your cloak of craziness,

I’ll breathe my final breath…

"We Stopped Checking For Monsters under the bed, 

because we realized they were inside us" - Stephen King.

Get away!

My feet pound the pavement, one step at a time. My heart beating in rhythm. In fear. I have to get away. I can't let him hurt me anymore. I wipe the blood from my face, my mouth still filled with a familiar metallic taste. I can still feel his bare hands around my neck as I run through darkened alleyways. I am no longer scared of him, I just need to escape. I stumble in the blackness, my legs collapsing underneath my worn out body, cutting my hands on broken glass bottles left by yesterdays drunks. I have no idea where I am, but I don't care. As  long as I am as far away as possible from him. I touch my arms, feeling the bruises and scars. Each one telling its own story, each memory its own. As I gasp for breath I remember how he used to be. I was his princess, his one and only. My memories flash before me like an old movie, flickering against the night sky. How I wish he would pick me up, kiss my forehead and tell me everything was going to be okay. Then carry me home as if I were still a baby. 

What changed? My mother used to speak so highly of him, always reminding me how lucky we were to have him. Of course I didn't know then that she was hiding her own scars. I was angry at her, asking why she would stay with a man who hurt her. I know now. How difficult it is to leave someone you love, yet hate at the same time. Its like being trapped, knowing that if you escape you will be hunted down. 

My heart stops for a moment. A cold shiver crawls up my spine. I hear his voice call out to me in the silence. His voice sweet but I can see past this disguise he has used so many times before. I cover my bloody mouth with my equally damaged hands in an attempt to mask my terrified breathing. His footsteps thunder louder, closer to where I hide so pathetically. I desperately pray, hoping he will pass by. He stops. I can feel the heat of his thick legs near my face, wondering if he can see me. Without thinking I let out the silent breath I had been holding in just as he turned to walk away. We both freeze on the spot simultaneously. I wait.

Has he seen me?

I wrote this straight from my head. Not brilliant but I hope you like it. xx

Hidden..

Its easy to hide

underneath a smile

,

when the world outside

is blind.

But its hard to hide

when the world is searching,

for the girl

with a broken mind.

-By Alanis.

This is kind of my signature poem. I use it a lot. :)