Three Little Birds (part I)

Blue light ate away through the thick curtains spilling onto her heavy eyes.  It continued to nibble at her eyelids till she sat bolt upright.  She signed and wrapped the duvet around her and trudged to the bathroom and stared at the mess that reflected back at her.  She washed away the smudged mascara from the night before and then brushed her teeth.  

When she slid downstairs she remembered "Oh... I have work tonight." she passed a silver little package in the corner on her way for the coffee and attempted to ignore it. 

Lights flickered outside the window.  Reds, pinks and yellows entered her eyes via the trembling kettle.  Rosa ignored them.  Her Black hair kept the chill of her neck.  she reached for the vodka as the kettle boiled and poured some in before adding the hot water staring it.  

She pressed play on the CD player and "three Little Birds" by Bob Marley began to shake the frosted windows.  

She put on her work cloths underneath a pair of baggy jeans, a t-shirt and a jumper.  She couldn't stand going to work but it was just to fill in time until she could get something better.  It wouldn't be too bad if they didn't feel the need to incorporate the theme of Christmas into the costume, as though she didn't have enough of it with shops screeching it's music out of every orifice with out having them further cheapen a tacky job.  

It was only 3 in the afternoon, she had an hour before she had to set off.  She returned downstairs to the package.  She noticed it topped with the same blue as the lower layers of her hair. She shuddered.  The tag attached to it read "From your loving boyfriend Alex xxx".  She felt nauseous.  He didn't give up, she changed the locks and he still found ways to get into her house, her home, the one place she was supposed to feel safe.  Holding her head with one hand she slid for to the floor while grabbing the present with the other before shattering its contents on the adjacent wall.  

She curled up and sobbed.  He had to give up eventually and then she would be free. Reporting him did no good, she got laughed out of the police station I mean a man of high social standing such as him wanting to be anywhere near her.  He was a lawyer, knew the ins and outs of the law.  It made it very hard for her to find anything evidence of what he was doing to her.  

They first met at her workplace.  One of his "friends" apparently payed for a dance.  Out of everyone he had to know her boss of course, had words so he could get more intimate encounter.  She was payed double of course for that, she couldn't tern down the work.  Her brother disappeared months ago leaving her drowning in dept. desperate times called for desperate measures and there is more than one way to sell your body.  More than once she was tempted to give in and to go along with his fantasies he could more than afford to help her but he just stepped the line to quickly sure she was desperate but not quite there yet she was going to beat him if it was the last thing she did.  

She had set the track to repeat and the lyrics pierced her self pity "this is my message to you, don't worry about a thing because every little thing is gonna be alright" her lips mouthed in time with the lyrics as she picked her self up and dragged her self to get another coffee.  She felt the music made a perfect little paradise in her mind fighting off the nauseating claques of Christmas with the warm sunny sounds of reggae.

When the track replayed a sixth time she took it of repeat and let the rest of the album flow through the speakers. 

Photographs.

I know I kind of disappeared but I'm still writing!
...................................................................

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

Waiting for You

I had been sitting on the bench
for three hours
when you sat down
on the bench.
The air was tense.
Heavy with things not said,
so instead
we sat and watched a dog
siff the ground around
the bin and then
have a piss up the side.
Easier than to decide
how to say that I tried
to ring you twenty times
but just got your voicemail.
I had been sitting on the bench
next to you
for twenty minutes
before I noticed
that you were wearing my jumper.
The one with the stain
that remains
on the sleeve
refusing to leave
even after a 60 degree wash.
We had been sitting on the bench
for another hour
while all the time I scoured
my brain for the right words.
And then I could no longer wait
to tell you that I hate it
when you are three hours late
to meet me. 

Mary Sharples

Shapes...?

For the musicians of the Planet ;3

Capo: 3

Chord procession: Em, G, Am, C

EDIT: I've made a video, because I'm nice. If you watch it more than once - I'll set penguins on you. It's got a lot of mistakes (mainly me, or my voice) and it's only 360p because my webcam sucks. My hair also goes a bit mental half-way through, please ignore it or I will cry. ;____;
Also - if you share the link, I will personally destroy you. Good day.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXzdT6T0i1g 

- - - - -

VERSE 1:

This is my square

It's not very round

It's got nice corners

I seem to have found

This is my square

Don't you think it's quite shapely?

I really do

I've been noticing lately

CHORUS:

Shapes! You make my world go round

Can't keep my feet on ground

Show my love through sound of music

x2

VERSE 2:

Square!

I've been tryna tell you

What'cha gonna do

If I leave you here...

Tonight!

I think it's gonna be alright

Circles gonna find me now

And take me away

CHORUS:

Shapes! You make my world go round

Can't keep my feet on ground

Show my love through sound of music

x2

A/N: This is all I have so far - and it's not finished. However, I seem to have hit an impasse, anyone with ideas for next verse please comment. ^_^

World Of Make Believe

Demanding people all around me
Who never can seem to agree
Conflicts here, arguments there
It all gets too much to bare
I want to leave, to escape
Why is everything so full of hate?

It's a long trek and I walk alone
My mind in the glorious world of its own
Thinking about far away lands, with purple skies and rain
The wind hits my face and its winter I blame
Then I wonder what I would feel if a tornado began to blow
And just like that I know what i'm doing when I get home!

Pulling out my pen and paper
All the hope and anger that was for later
As I leave the real world behind
I begin to lose track of time
I let the words flow from my mind to the paper
Given inspiration by the people and nature,

I make worlds of make believe!

Anger, hate, romance, fright
Oh, my God, what to write?
Two warriors against each other could being to argue?
Or a girl waiting for her date at the planned venue?
Maybe a superhero saving the world from an enemy?
Or a group of teens go into house haunted by an entity?


Pulling out my pen and paper
All the hope and anger that was for later
As I leave the real world behind
I begin to lose track of time
I let the words flow from my mind to the paper
Given inspiration by the people and nature,

I make worlds of make believe!


JK Rowling writes fantasy books, Harry Potter against Voldemort
James Patterson writes about crime fighting mortals who takes bad guys to court!
Roald Dahl writes children's books and short stories of wonder and mystery
Everything from books from now to way back in history
Comes from peoples imagination out of the blue
Then are sold as books by the very few.


Pulling out my pen and paper
All the hope and anger that was for later
As I leave the real world behind
I begin to lose track of time
I let the words flow from my mind to the paper
Given inspiration by the people and nature,

I make worlds of make believe!


I sit on my bed and scribble down combinations
Making characters and their conversations
deciding their destinies and final fights
their lowest times and their greatest heights

Stories need a place in life
How can we live without our make believe life?


Pulling out my pen and paper
All the hope and anger that was for later
As I leave the real world behind
I begin to lose track of time
I let the words flow from my mind to the paper
Given inspiration by the people and nature,

I make worlds of make believe!


As i leave the real world behind
I begin to lose track of time

I make worlds of make believe
I write worlds of make believe

To Phobos

I strip away the indolent cower
For fear did not create this tower;
Upon this rock it holds no power;

Over this wild being, restraint
Is not the palette, not the paint -
It will not mar, it will not taint,

Nor will it sacrifice the art
Inside the throbbing savage heart.
But it will be a burning part
Raging against eternal dark.

So bring the metal anvil through,
And let me smash the night in two,
Sheep herd, murmur quick adieus

To foul, troubled winters bleak.
For are storms quiet, are they meek?
Is not mad winter what men seek?

Is this what evolution primed
Year after year, time after time,
That man churn out falsetto mimes,
Whilst tired with his daily grind?

I will rise up, and say this much:
That disappointment cannot touch
Those men who shape their lives in such

Boundaries and chained confines
Which assets grasp and then refine
The future hope for the divine.

But neither can he feel the sun
Of bravery radiant upon
Green fields of dreams that he has spun
That only through action is won.

Undone

Uncoil the yarn, liberate the string,

Half of Kephisos dried up in the spring.  

Undo the cord, relinquish the rope,

Cut callidity from our dearest corpse.

Unravel the wool, tend to the thread -

We strip away our unforgotten dead.