Maclean Chapter 1 (Rough draft)

Hi there! I have written the first chapter of Maclean – at the moment it’s only a rough draft but the final version may just be this but more polished. I hope you enjoy it and look forward to eight more chapters as it’s going to be a short novel.


Chapter I – Warton Warehouse

When Peter had first found the job at Warton Warehouse and they had interviewed him, he wanted to be known as Peter or Pete; he did not like his first name, Stanley, which didn’t sound like it originated from Scotland. Peter never knew that Scotland was his country of birth until recently. He had returned from America and had been living with his mother ever since. He wanted to find a job soon, so he could afford to live on his own and escape from his mother.

“Have you had any previous experience,” the interviewers had asked, their accents distinctly different from Peter’s own more American one.

“I don’t.” He never found work in America, and his parents never gave him any work. They never helped him find a job, so he knew he had to muster up the small amount of courage he had and seek one himself. No experience. He felt his ribcage tighten, as he always has since his adolescence. He breathed in slowly.

“We’ll train you and make you learn how things work here. We’ll give you something manageable for the moment so you can get the hang of this work environment.”

Peter said nothing, his gaze focussed on the photos on the wall, staring at them blankly. He nodded and whispered, “It’s ok.”

“What do you hope to find in this job and where do you see your life in five years?”

Peter dreamed of becoming a musician and hopefully forming a band with some people. He had this dream when he was twelve years old and he read an article about an artist who supported herself by having a primary job that would give her money, and during her time off she would practice. He believed that it was a wise way to live, and wanted to do the same. He would work at the warehouse during the day and at night he would stay up for a few hours and work on songs he had in mind.

Peter thought about the question, and the obvious answer was to say: I want to be a musician. He felt it was inappropriate and said, “I hope to be more organised and have a family.” He was not honest. His ribcage tightened. He could beat himself up.

“Could you be more clear, please?”

“I mean I hope to organise my life and have more money so I can have a family. I’m twenty-four. I don’t want to live with my mum.”

“Of course, it’s only a natural part of progression in life.”

And I’d like to play the piano, he almost said. He decided to keep it to himself. After all, dreams are private and Peter feared that revealing them would not only harm him, but also cause them to fester from the judgement of others. He just wanted to live life as an ordinary man who lives in Edinburgh, has fees to pay, have a family, and be a proud member of Britain. To be at home in Scotland. Find someone who can empathise with him.

Peter then remained silent and allowed the interviewer to continue.

“Find something to dedicate your life to and grow with it. Detaching from your parents—or parent in your case—and managing on your own. It’s a decent plan for a young person like you.”

The interview continued and Peter touched his chest at times, trying to prevent himself from visibly gripping it in front of the interviewer. It ached.

That one night when his stepfather did not want to understand it; Peter had found himself tied to the bed with cloths restraining his arms and legs. That was when noticed the aching in his chest.

Now, no one must find out. Don’t be an idiot, he told himself, You must keep this all to yourself now.

“So,” the interviewer continued, “we’ll give you a place here and see how it works for you, and if it meets our requirements. Well done, Peter.” The interviewer smiled at him and they shook hands.

Peter left the Warehouse and made his way home. The cold atmosphere of Edinburgh was still new to him, and the mist of the morning clung the streets he passed. Peter kept his eyes down as he passed others, and some people blabbered in their alien accent that Peter could not understand. Ever since he arrived at the airport, the first impression of Scotland was that it seemed tranquil and quiet. However, as he spent his first few months living with his mother, something started to seem off. Almost as if it betrayed the initial tranquillity. Something was in Peter’s mind…

No more getting nervous, he thought to himself. He had to understand his nervousness, and he prayed that this job could help in some way. This could be your great chance. So when he would arrive on Tuesday, his first day, he would try his best.

The afternoon came by though the mist remained, cold and dry, and Peter returned to his mother’s flat. He knocked on the door. No response. She is at work, and will return around seven. So Peter let himself in. The dull and odd smell of decay filled his nostrils. He went to his room and locked himself in until his mother returned.

And before him stood the piano. It belonged to his step-father so he could practice musical pieces for the church choir. Peter saw his step-father perform several times at St. Mary’s Church, back in America, and he would play the organ. His mum wanted the piano and soon Peter himself took a liking to it. The piano stood before his own shoddy bed. It watched over him as he slept, and was the first thing he saw when he woke up. He would see it stand tall and powerful before him.

He sat himself on the stool, and began playing the piano. He tried to invent a piece and work on it. He was able to play basic melodies, but he wanted more.

He was going to be a musician.

As he worked at Warton Warehouse, no one would even know he would practice his piano after work, as the colleagues would waste themselves at the pub.

As he continued on his improvised piece, something came to his mind. Something small. His face became grave and he grumbled inaudibly, Dirty culture…



As soon as he heard a key in the door, he quickly stopped playing and shut the cover with a careful thud. He knew it was now evening since the room grew darker; it was his anticipation that made him tense. “Peter? Are you here?” his mother called in the hallway.

He went next to the door and replied, “I’m in my room.”

“Ah…” his mother said, and then wordlessly went to the kitchen. The rustling told him that she had done some shopping on the way back. He laid in bed and waited for her to say that dinner was ready.

When it was, they ate together in silence. The mother never wanted to talk to him about her own work, so he never asked. He was caught by surprise as she asked him, “Did you find work?” Her tone quiet and reproachful, and she kept her eyes on her soup.

Peter’s lips tightened and glanced up to his mother, and remained silent. “Did you find work?” her voice sounding colder with aggravation. “Respond to your mother.”

“Yes,” he mumbled, a child’s tone. His eyes down and his expression hollow.

His mother downed a can of beer, some escaping her mouth and dribbling down her jaw. She croaked, “Don’t you ever misbehave with your mother ever again, you stupid kid! What are you now: Twenty-four? Behave like a grown up.”

They were silent for a minute, and Peter’s eyes started to darken. His ribcage clutched, and made it difficult to breathe for him. He flinched and his spoon cluttered on the table when his mother scoffed, “Your father didn’t punish you for nothing.”

“My step-father, mum,” he mumbled.

“Shut up!”

Just you wait, mum…, he thought. He had thought that one phrase, and in lurked in his mind for as long as he could remember. He remembered her drinking when they had been in America, and when her husband—he never admitted that her husband was his step-father—was absent, she would be drinking and croaking. At the time, when he was around fourteen years old, he attempted to play the piano with a simple arpeggio melody, and his mother burst his door open. Shut that thing up! she shrieked before slamming the cover on Peter’s fingers.

So he continued to think Just you wait mum…just you wait and see what I can do.

They remained silent and they both finished their soups, and she opened another can with a sizzle. Peter took both plates and washed them, and as he dried them, he looked at his mother. The person drinking the beer was skinny and frail with a frown that made her face creased, and her skin was grey. “I’m watching TV. You, go to bed,” she grumbled.

He finished drying the plates and cutlery and went to his room, and turned the key. Now he could be alone, at least in his little zone in their apartment.

He thought about his new work, and his luck at being accepted. He would have to give it his all. I can’t lose it at work, now, he thought. I have to be in control of myself; I can’t let it get to me. He placed his hand on his chest and tried to breathe in. The ribs were tight, and he wanted to dig into his flesh and grasp the bones. He needed the money.

He needed to get away.




He woke up, and a pale misty light of morning came through his window and filled his room. He lifted himself up and the piano was blurred in his vision. It was a cold, grey and gentle day outside. He saw 6:50am on his bedside clock.

It was Tuesday.


He got up from his bed and crept to the door. His mum does not like being the last one to wake up so he was careful not to make any noise. He put his ear on the door and tried to listen to any noise coming from the hall. All there was his mum’s gurgling snore and the static of the television, and it echoed. Echoed in the hollow hall, and it reached into his mind.

He then sat at the piano and stared at the black and white keys. His mind was blank and he wanted to hear the sound of the piano strings, but he did not want to wake his mum. He even thought of playing the piano loudly just to spite her. Instead, he laid his forefinger on a white key, and hesitantly, pressed down. The sound was timid and broken. He closed the cover with a gentle tap, and got a sheet of paper to begin experimenting with musical notes. Though he had little experience with song writing, he knew that getting it down on paper was enough to start progress and he would improve his craft later over time. He wrote an experimental melody quietly, tapped his fingers on the piano cover and hummed it in his head. When his mum would leave to go to her work, he would play it out loud.

He stopped, and his pen was motionless in his hand. The tip rested on the last note he drew, and stared at it for a minute. He then flared his nostrils and whispered through gritted teeth, “What a shit piece.” He put the piece of paper underneath a pot of orchids, and went to the door and unlocked it with caution. He took one step into the hall, and listened to his mum’s snoring. He tiptoed to the kitchen and got a glass of water.

The clock in the kitchen read ten to seven, and at eight he would leave to begin his first day at Warton Warehouse.




He arrived at Warton Warehouse at twenty to nine. His shift would begin at quarter past eight. Others would need to guide him as he had little to no idea of what he was doing. He would half be in reality, listening and assimilating information about his job, about what to do and how to behave with others, and the other half would be distracted, telling himself over and over not to lose his patience, to control his nervousness and that his mother—fucking cunt mother—was away in a miserable apartment. He would make money and leave her forever, and be an ordinary middle class man with family and no disgusting mother to bother him.

Inside, there were some workers already there, eating sandwiches and drinking liquids before going to work. None said hello to Peter, especially giving that they had heard his American accent. They would probably invite him to the pub just to beat him up. Peter remained quiet, tense, his brow furrowed, his expression darkening.

Be quiet.

Unsure what he was doing, he went to his boss’s office. His boss was a man named Glen Barker, a rather grey skinned man with heavy eyebrows and a cheerful smile, and yet he had serious, piercing eyes. Yet Peter was unsure if he could truly trust him. He gave the glass of the door a hesitant knock and waited. Glen came out and looked at him blankly.

“Excuse me, Sir. I am not sure where I am supposed to be. I…I-I’m new here and just wanted to ask where I need to go.” Peter said.

“Maclean, is it?”

“It is.”

“Well, I think you are going to help with the stock for today. Just counting things, easy stuff for a young fellow like you.” Glen gazed at him with concerned eyes, like there something he already did not like about Peter. Peter seemed to sense this, and he looked at the concrete floor.

Don’t do anything.

“Well, no worries, no worries, Maclean, you can wait here. Steve ought to be here in ten minutes and he’ll help you. You can sit here ‘til he arrives. Help yourself to some water.”

He’s just the boss. Has many of his own worries.

Peter sat in his office and waited exactly ten minutes, and Steve promptly arrived as if he was already waiting outside and was given the cue to come in. They exchanged greetings and got to work, Steve explaining what to do, where the stock was and what to count. As Peter was unsure what he was doing, he asked Steve to give him an example, and so Steve showed him what to do and left Peter to do the rest.

He counted the stock, and counted it again to make sure he did not miss anything. As he did, the grey sky he could see from the large windows now had light breaking from the clouds and the sun was higher. Soon it was lunch break. Steve would come and check up on him soon. Whatever, he did and whatever Steve saw, it would all be referred back to the boss. It was a small warehouse, and it functioned as a tight network.

Soon, Steve came to Peter and dismissed him for his break; he would make sure it was all done correctly. Peter finished eating a sandwich when the speakers of the warehouse called his name and wanted him to go to Mr Barker. He was still and his jaw got tense; what had gone wrong. Steve? He hurried to Barker’s office and knocked on the door, and a blank voice inside asked him to come in.

“Sit down, Maclean. No not there, in front of me.”

Peter sat down, and stared at Barker. After a minutes silence, Barker asked “why do you think you are here?”

“Was there something that happened to Steve?”

Barker remained quiet again, and then asked “what games do think you are playing?”

Don’t get angry, Peter whispered.

Stunned, he asked “Pardon?”

“What game do you think this is? This is a job, not a playground. Be a kid elsewhere. Steve told me that you got the stock all counted wrong, and he told you specifically how to do it.”

Be a kid elsewhere. Be a kid elsewhere. Be a kid elsewhere.

Peter said nothing afterwards, fixated on Barker.

“Here we do things with a serious mind,” was one of the phrases he heard Barker scold him with, even though it was just a small first day mistake. He never expected the boss to lose his temper on his newcomer already.

And Peter already found Glen Barker to be a fake person. A person who is truly negative on the inside, and he tasted a bitterness.

Barker finished by saying, “Return to your post, but Steve will now supervise you in case you are too clumsy.” Peter left, saying nothing, his eyes half closed and half staring at nothing. Nothing interested him. He wanted to stare deep into a dark void instead of his surroundings.

That Steve told me nothing.

Steve should have told Peter about this instead of going straight to Barker about his, what Barker described so excellently: about his clumsiness. He caught up to Peter, who looked at him from over the shoulder and gave him a cold nod. Afterall, no one knew Peter here so it was normal they treated him like a stranger. Like an alien.

Why Steve.

            “Why did you not tell me about that?” he asked, reproachful. Steve did not give him the answer he searched for, “count the contents of those boxes, please.”

“Can you please answer my question. I asked you why did you not tell me. Am I not here to learn from you.”

“I find you—and many others I know here—untrustworthy. Your accent…you American?”

“I was brought up there.”

“You’re the only one here then. All Scottish.”

“What does that mean? Is there a strict nationality rule here?”

The sarcasm in Peter’s remark got to Steve, “Well you American’s can feck off and leave us be. You all greedy shits.” Peter froze in his spot, in fear and in building rage.

“Well, you disgusting scots all spend time at pub wasting your pathetic selves and for what? All because what is not from Scotland is shit? Yeah? Well you can suck cock, fuckface.”

Steve was motionless and shocked at Peter’s words, and then he wordlessly went away, to Barker again.

He did it.

Soon, the speakers once again called his name, and he could distinctly hear chuckles and laughs coming from the other workers. The warehouse was one large space, enough that voices could be hear from the other side. The repressed laughter echoed in the large space, and dug into Peter, dug deep into his skull. He went to Barkers office once again.

Barker called him in and Peter sat at in the same chair he had earlier.

“Why did you use harmful language against one of the employers?” Barker asked. He was straight to the point and did not have a minute’s silence like he had before. Peter gave him a straight answer, “because he offended me by saying that Americans like me can f off. To make things clear I was born in Scotland, but was raised in America for all of my childhood and adolescence.”

“I see,” he replied, and there was a sincerity in his tone that surprised Peter. As if perhaps Peter should not have judged him, and Steve was indeed the one who exaggerated. “However, you also used harmful language against him, and I thought it would be fair if I end your shift for today. You will resume on Friday. I will have a word with Steve.”

“Thank you, and I did not mean to miscount the stock.”

“I understand, no worries, no worries.”

Peter left the warehouse, feeling unusually positive. Barker was not a fake person at all.

Sometimes I really hate myself, he thought.



Peter returned home, and went to his bedroom where he checked him alarm clock. It read 2:17. Mum would be home in four hours. He continued to work on his musical piece he had put down in the morning. He tried to play it, and as he had thought before, he mumbled to himself, “what a shit piece.” He was tempted to take the leaf of paper, and rip it into tiny shreds, crush them together and throw the little ball into the bin. He then breathed in, and reassured himself, easy, easy, just work on it, add something weird and then it may be better. And so he did. It turned out nicer. He was proud of it.

His mother returned at around 6:15, and she exclaimed to Peter, “I got some food. Come to the kitchen to eat it, Stanley.” She had got a takeaway meal – a burger and salad for Peter and a larger sludgy burger for herself with cans of beer.

They both ate their takeaways in silence at the table, and Peter, wanting to sound positive asked, “Did you have a nice day, mum?”

“I did,” she replied and took a large bite out of her burger, the sludge squirting out onto her thin dry lips, and she took a long sip of her beer. “And you, how was your first day at work?”

Peter hesitated his response, and said simply, “good.”

“That’s not true. Tell me, you little liar. What really happened.”

“A guy was being mean to me. He told me that Americans—which I am not—should fuck off.”

“Don’t you dare swear! Have respect for your own mother!” she downed the rest of her beer, and then chuckled. “’You Americans should fuck off’ Did he really say that to you?” She could not contain her laughter.

Peter closed his eyes. His body trembled with rage and he wanted to cry at the same time. His jaw chattered, and he remained sitting there for a minute. “I hate you, mum. I hate your very guts, you disgusting bitch!” The words stammered but were delivered, and the room became cold. Next, fingers grabbed his ear and his mother’s voiced roared into them, spitting some of the alcohol into his eardrum, “Don’t you fucking dare treat your own mother like that ever again. To. Your. Room. Now!

He was dragged by the ear, and he already began to sob in deep, shaking frustration.

“What a child you are. You’re pathetic! You’re a failure of a man,” screamed his mother. She kicked him into his room and slammed the door. He struggled to get up, his legs shook violently, and he reached his piano stool for support. He sat down at the piano.

Then he took the piano case and slammed it down several times. Up and down—bang bang bang! And he thundered random keys on his piano and finally let out a furious, dark scream with each broken chord.



Angel Underneath a Blue Shadow

Hi there! Sorry I haven’t published anything in a long time, but now I want to go back in action. Here is a poem dedicated for my cousin who has one through a lot of bad events.


Dear Angel,
You have not been defeated.
You are merely lost now
In the dark with your wings harmed.
Your feathers plucked
And laying coldly around.
I still see your light.
You still have power.
You need a kind hand to mend your wings,
To assist your flight and unveil
You from the blue shadow.

You claim that Heaven abandoned you.
That all good is meaningless and banal.
I send you these lyrics with my love
And assist I shall.
My dear, you are pure.
You are young, plenty of life ahead.
Let me help you cure.

And just like in the fairytales
That we used to love,
You need a kiss. The kiss of life!
Now: watch as in the sky soars a dove.

Maclean Quotes

Hi there!

Sorry that I haven’t published anything lately. I hope everyone had a great Christmas and new year.

Today I felt like sharing some raw quotes from my Maclean novel. Hopefully they convey the stress of the main characters (and is yeah a little too dramatic lol):

  • (Stanley Peter Maclean, protagonist) “If I don’t perform, I never will. It’ll be my death. You have absolutely no idea what this means to me…”
  • (S.P. Maclean) “I need to make a name for myself. I don’t want to lose my place in society.”
  • (Jac Neil, Peter’s wife and secondary character) “Peter, what do you think I’m going through. I’m sorry; you’re making a reckless decision. I have put the burden of our family’s wellbeing on my shoulders. How do you know you will be successful?”
  • (S.P. Maclean’s mum) “Why do you not listen to anything I tell. I give you guidance and ignore it, you little slime. You’ll disappoint Jac! You’re going to be a failure!” (When Maclean is in his 40s)
  • (Barman, hosts Peter’s pub performance) *smiles warmly* “You know, you aren’t alone when you feel estranged from Britain. Back in Brazil, there was nothing for me. When I came here, I had to give it my all. Me and my girlfriend still feel alien here.” *chuckles*
  • (S.P. Maclean, in thoughts, alone in apartment) “Little shits in all these blocks. Little shits scattered in the streets. Who could fucking care if something horrid happened to them…Always complaining. Do nothing but fuck all; always drinking. Pathetic shits…”
  • (Derk Cumming, Peter’s apparent friend during his quiet stag do) “I figured since you have nothing happening, I’d take you somewhere. Somewhere I think you may…take a liking.”
  • (Derk) “Peter, all you need to do is listen to me. Not your wife, not your son, not your Barman friend…I know what is best.”

Hope you like them, found them interesting (and indeed corny and overdramatic) and look forward to my book

‘The Artist Who Left His Mark’

Hi again! Here’s another poem I wrote recently. It’s a quick poem based on a certain novel I am currently writing. It should convey the idea of the novel – the typical tragic artist archetype becomes a figure of horror. It’s not my best poem, but I think my idea is conveyed and you will see how it gets some inspiration from ‘Carrie’, my favourite movie.


There was once a man who was born in Scotland

And raised in America.

He was destined to be

The Artist who left his mark.


He returned to his home country,

And with his mother he stayed.

He strived to become ap pianist,

And then be the Artist who left a mark.


As lonely and stressed he was,

He soon found a way to escape

His grey life. He met a woman with deep red hair.

She would be the wife of the artist who left his mark.


He played and practised his piano skills,

And had few friends he thought he could trust.

The pressure on him mounted and tormented him

But it would all change once he left his mark.


Sometimes, his wife phoned him in the apartment

And found him crying in fear and secret rage.

He was shaken, eyes of people on him,

On the artist who will leave his mark.


The few friends he had were two-faced,

They did not believe in his lonely journey.

So they would become the victims

Of the artist who left his mark.


He was offered a chance,

At a pub at twilight will be the place of his performance.

He was prepared, full of intent

And it was the night the Artist left his mark.


He knew what he was going to do,

Innocent people, toxic people, uncontrollable people.

It was a perfect set up.

He was the artist…who will now unleash it.


After his killer performance,

People stunned and terrified of him,

He returned happily, he achieved his purpose.

He had left his mark.


It was on the news.

Someone had spoken, his voice intense and fearful.

He was found dead in his apartment,

The corpse of the artist who left his mark.


Now the streets of Edinburgh are hollow,

Secrets shared, all streets now dark.

No one would ever forget it.

The Artist had now left his mark.

‘Sweet Granny’s Figurines’

Hi again! Here is another poem I wrote recently and was looking forward to see how it turned out once it was finished. I wanted it to be a very cheeky and ironic poem about how I feel when I go to visit my dad’s notorious Mother. I’m very happy that it actually has a simple rhyme scheme to help add to the irony. Enjoy 🙂


Time to visit Sweet Granny again!

Let’s go tomorrow, let’s book a train today!

It’ll be so fun.

We’ll go to Sweet Granny’s and play!


On our way we pass grey mountains,

Full of dead foliage, the trees skeletal and mossy,

The rivers emerging like fountains.

We’re going to Sweet Granny’s! She’s bitter and bossy!


And she’s already there at the station.

Her long coat against her knees.

Oh, so much elation!

Her pale hair waving in the cold breeze.


We arrive at Sweet Granny’s house

And dinner is ready!

Better make sure she doesn’t stain her blouse.

So far, everything seems nice and steady.


“You’re our Sweet Granny,” our voices harmonise,

“We love when we see Sweet Granny.”

Her eyes are dull and flat. It’s our mother she despises.

We’re eager. Watch out tonight for anything uncanny!


There are her dolls. Her white people of porcelain.

Sweet Granny has so many collections!

Her white women in long beautiful dresses never complain.

The delicate white families are nothing short of perfection.


Oh, she’s at it again.

Oh Sweet Granny, oh what in the world is wrong?

“Now go to bed,” she spits. It is now ten.

We love our Sweet Granny. She is so spiteful and strong!


It is 1 in the morning.

I am the first to hear a strange new sound.

It is exciting yet startling.

So I get up. My naked feet touch the bristly ground.


The sound comes from the behind the kitchen door.

I twist the door knob,

Sweat already seeping out of my pore.

I see what is inside and finally my heart ceases to throb.


The fragile figurines! They flourish with life!

How they dance! Restricted by the glass cabinet.

They cry out to me – but to Sweet Granny I must abide.

She may be getting up from her bed!


“We wish to dance, dear young one,”

They cry. “Let us break free!

Let us finally have our fun!”

And I am tempted. I smile with glee.


I allow the figurines their freedom from their display.

Watch how they jump and prance.

The white little children are now allowed to play.

They dance, they dance, they dance—I’m entranced!


They jump out, diving, smiling.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

There will be no more crying.

Soon, I realise morning is coming soon.


We’re now going back to our home early!

It was so fun playing with Sweet Granny!

The figurines were found shattered—it was us surely.

I did say look out for anything uncanny!

‘Little Clone’

A poem about my dark side that I need to resolve and understand as this year there were some scary incidents that happened because of this issue I have. This was inspired by a conversation with my therapist who is teaching me hypnotic calming techniques.


I have a little clone of me in a cage.

He is an aggressive clone of me:

His blood coloured hair, his pale skin

His yellow eyes, his foul sharp teeth,

His awful sneer. Hunched over in the cage,

His claws gripping the bars.

For I will not allow him control over my rage.


I locked him in there because he got the best of me.

He knows me; he is me.

“I am your shadow, what you do is what I do.”

He smiles at me. Chills from that horrid glare.

His eyes shine, the black slits pierce through me.

I drag his little prison with me everywhere.

The weight scrapes the ground.

My little clone is calm…he waits…



I do not know what to do with him.

To me he is like a limb, if I cut him off,

I’ll feel it missing. It feels wrong.

So I patiently drag his little cage around.

He indeed is my shadow. Me and him are forever bound.


One day, he asks me let him out.

As I had once before when I had less control.

Back then I had believed him.

Now that has taken its toll.

If I let him out now, we would wrestle and wrestle

Wrestle until I could shove him back into his cage.

I would never let him win me again.

I say, “I must not let you out.

You put me and other people in danger.”

Fear and wonder fill me as I gaze into his yellow eyes.

The pupils enlarge, his grimace now wide.


“And you will be in danger too,” I add.

This is true.

He is me; if I abuse him,

It will only hurt me too.

“You come from me, you are linked to my soul.

This is for your own good.”

Finally, his horrid features weaken.

His yellow eyes are now reflective.

I almost mistook him for a true human.

I am glad that he seems to understand my perspective.


I do not know what to do with my little clone.

I have imprisoned him.

He is my rotten limb.

We must find an answer together

For we may be entwined forever…








Nocturnal Tendencies

I had an idea for a poem about my nocturnal lifestyle. Enjoy 🙂


I live by night.

It is when I come out.

Odd? That thought makes me chuckle.

Don’t feel intimidated. We’re human.

We are all the same flesh, blood and bone,

And different in soul, mind and lifestyle.


My mind awakes at night.

I dream of stories, of inspiration,

Thoughts and fantasies of the earth I live on.

I am the Master. I can change it all in my mind.

How about this? I see in the dark.

I eat secretly. I am ever watchful of

My territory that is the dark.


What am I?

A cat?

A bat?

An owl?

That’s foul?

Not to me. I know my mind.

Excuse my feline tendencies.

No need to worry over peculiarities.

As I said, we’re all human.


My mind floods; I suddenly know

A new world. It’s full of my dreams and ideas.

I see it in my mind and I experience it.

And I write.

‘About Your Drinking…’

“There is a part of my mind that tells me to drink–

Just a tiny little voice convinces me.

Only my kids can stop me from drinking,” you said.

I know you realise the impact it had on our family,

And I want you stop as does your daughter and your ex-wife

and your parents and your work colleagues.

I understand the destruction of it, all of us suffered

I could not imagine the realisation of it or the deep guilt it would burden.

I understand your need of others…


But you must realise this: you are the cause

You have allowed this.

You must make a change to the problem.

It has proved to be beyond our family’s control.

Remember that drive during the night with me in the back?

It was traumatising; I thought you were a stranger.

I couldn’t trust my own dad.

How can I or my sister fix that?

What about that wedding you and…her brought up?

What happened to it?


I care about you because your my dad.

          You need to tackle your own problems.

Bloodink, Inkblood

A lovely poem. I really need to write everyday non-stop; playing TOO many videogames lately!

Writing from the Margins

A little something that wouldn’t let me go to sleep last night until I had written it down.

She writes with the blood in her veins, but it is not blood that runs in her veins. It is ink.

And the ink gets heavier and thicker with each passing day.

With each day, her skin is parchment, something for the world with which to play.

And when the ink grows to thick and the burden to great, she sits down and takes up the pen.

She dunks the pen into the inkwell that is her heart and she writes and writes and writes.

Writes out all that pain of the passing days.

The sorrow, the anger, the love and the joy.

She writes it all down, until her heart is empty and there is nothing to write down anymore.

The papers stack up in her apartment, but she doesn’t throw…

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‘Pluck My Strings’

Here’s an old poem I wrote during High School – it has a little twist at the end


If you do love me, then prove yourself.

Impress me.

Let this night float around us;

Stir in-between our small space.

Let our location fade away,

Loosen your focus,

And let your body take action.

Let it float upon me.

Tread your fingers on me;

From stomach to chest,

From neck to breast.

Reach into my soul, stir me within.

Pluck my strings

Let its music flow into you,

Inspire you.

Prove yourself — I have no experience.

Impress me.