I’m unofficially an author. I write unofficial works that are unofficially read by unofficial people.
In early September, a familiar path illuminates Hull’s Old Town replacing the burnt out street lamps along Humber Street.
He’s wearing his ring to his ex-wife’s wedding. Let me clarify: he is wearing his wedding ring – the ring his ex-wife gave to him – at said ex-wife’s wedding. Her wedding to another person. Another person who isn’t fat.
It stares at me, with cold unloving eyes. I want to create, to make something, but all I see is white.
To be happy, You need the feeling of the cold hard sky,
Remember how people forgot? About how we were nothing before our mum and dads met;
As writers, we have the right… To make as many mistakes as we want and write messy, scribbling over the page…
If you say there is no love, why can I feel love in your heart?
The adagio was soft pecks on cheeks, sad ointment, A tender brush of keys, semi-staccato,