‘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…








Creative Writing Story: Maclean’s Work Week (Update)

Hi again!

I decided to reupload Maclean’s Work Week as the other one was incomplete. Now I will upload the complete 1400 word draft for my Creative Writing Assessment. Since a first chapter ‘excerpt’ was not acceptable for the assessment, I had to round up the story to an incident at the Warehouse – soon, I’ll upload the proper first chapter of my horror novel. Look forward to it! 🙂


The first week at Warton Warehouse was a seemingly quiet week for Peter as he had been trained how to count the stock and he had been able to learn the basics. Firstly, he had been a little sloppy at it, and had given an incorrect sum to the supervisor. He knew that it would not go down well and his boss was already annoyed with him; Peter remained silent. He knew staying silent was better.


Already something wrong had to happen. Always wrong.


Peter had no choice but to stay in this job as it was the only way for him to earn some money on his own. Asking his parents money was something he believed to be pathetic and the easy choice. Only a choice for adults who are actually juveniles inside. Pathetic. He would always get pains in his chest when he used to live in America with his step-father and his mother was not very supportive of him either. He knew the pains would come from his nervousness.


He had never understood why he got these pains.


When the boss was scolding him, Peter answered “yeh…” and the pains in his chest grew more unbearable. The boss did not notice the subtle twisting of Peter’s body and that Peter’s eyes grew paler. The boss however appeared dismissive, cold to the wellbeing of his employers. That’s what Peter thought anyway.


Every night, he would come home to the flat he and his mum shared. He would walk through the darkened streets of an icy Edinburgh, the amber glow flooding all his sights, and once he entered the apartment block, he came home to the unpredictable and strangely hostile air. He always knocked on the door, his mum never gave him any keys. She would open the door, and quietly let him in. “How was your first week, Stanley?” she had asked him on the first night he was off.


Stanely. That was his first name. He did not like that name. It did not sound like it came from Scotland. His mother had given him the name of Stanely Peter Maclean, and she and his step-father—who they had left behind America—always called him Stanely. “Peter…or Pete, mum,” he mumbled. “Stop calling me Stanley.”


“What a great week it was then?” she remarked, with a false smile. “I’m going to have dinner. Go to bed.” “I want to play the piano,” he said, but he knew her answer. “Play when it when I’m not home. And play it when you’re good,” she hissed. Peter again remained silent—his forehead creased and his mouth grimaced slightly. He had eaten a wrap with ham and lettuce on the way back home. He went to his room and locked the door, and lied on the bed in his work clothes.


He eyed the piano in his room. It had photographs of when he was living in America, when his mum and stepfather took him to the park, when he ate a picnic with them and when he was educated at home by his stepfather. He had brought home a small bunch of orchids and decorated the piano. The only natural looking thing in their flat. He wanted to be a pianist. He hoped he could find some people with the same interest. People who could also appreciate him.


He closed his eyes, the pain in his chest clutching his organs. He whispered to himself, “if I could grow fangs and claws, I could sort out these people who want to give me the cold shoulder and want me to look stupid.”


After his second week at work, he had been happy that he started to get the hang of things at the Warehouse. He did not talk much with his colleagues, who seemingly were all male. He started to find it frustrating: as if it were a boys’ school, but they were given a generous sense of responsibility. He believed that none of them could appreciate his real goal: to be a musician.


At the end of the week, to Peter’s surprise, one of these male colleagues approached him and had asked him to play football with them, to which he found himself accepting, almost urgently. It was six in the afternoon. All of them drove to a football pitch which they had booked yesterday. It was an enclosed football pitch. He never played football; he knew what it was, his stepfather watched it and Peter remembered that intimidating passion and could hear his shouts.


The men’s match began, with Peter assisting someone apparently named Sam at being one of the defenders. Peter stood mostly by the side as Sam knew what he was doing as he usually received the ball. Then, when the ball came to Peter, he missed and was not sure what to do. The shouts concentrated on him, coming from his fellow teammates. Peter was too distracted to say anything to anyone. “What fuckin’ are ye? Deaf?” growled the coal keeper. Peter closed his eyes, his fingers clawing. He grimaced. That accent…


Once the match was over, the team dispersed and they all went to get changed. Peter went away to a distant locker and waited for the others to leave. “Are ye comin’?” asked a voice that sounded like it belonged to the goalkeeper.


Peter poked his head out of the locker. “Go without me,” he said and watched them all go outside into the twilight. He sat on the bench of his locker and changed his shirt.


Then he noticed. His chest started to rise and fall uncontrollably and he clawed at his chest. Digging his uncut fingernails into his pale flesh. His voice came out in a deep snarl. The only consciousness within him could hear deep enraged screams echoing in the corridor. That Scottish shit face. I could eat his skin and drink his blood. He fully changed himself. He left the building with a croaking voice filled with shame and frustration. He returned home and said nothing to his mother about this.


On Tuesday, he went to his shift and he felt eyes on him. “Be careful Stanley. You may miss one item,” said one of his colleagues, making another colleague nearby snicker. That deliberate voice mocking of his American accent remained in Peter’s head. Peter smiled to himself and thought: Well let’s who will be laughing once I unravel my real self. Peter excluded himself even further from his colleagues for the rest of the day.


After hours, it was finally dusk. Peter remained, the lights above him flickering. For the whole day, his chest did not hurt. He was surprised by his own body. His mind had been somewhere else all day…and had a thought that awoke a desire within his heart. It made him smile. His blood started to pump faster around his body, an intoxicating gush. He was going to find the goal keeper. Apparently he was called Tim.

Tim was finishing his work, and after he put his things away, he called someone who Peter assumed to be his girlfriend. Peter saw a crate sitting right above him. His blood pumping made his heart beat with ecstasy. He got a ladder and made no sound at all as he placed it next to the shelf where the lone crate sat. He was behind Tim.


He pushed the crate a little. He was surprised that it made no sound. The gentle sound of wood on metal was nothing compared to how Tim spoke on his phone – louder and irritating. He waited and let the lights around them flicker more. They flickered more.




Peter pushed the crate and next came a loud crunching explosion. It echoed through the long towering halls of other crates and giant boxes. Tim’s voice was immediately cut off. After several minutes, Peter went to inspect him. There was a bloody arm with chips of wood stuck in it and an oozing puddle of blood was powdered with sawdust. “Tim?” he asked, approaching the body that was once the goalkeeper. Peter reached out to the lifeless arm with caution – he would not want it to grab him in return. The dead arm gave him a strange sensation and he took his hand away. He gazed at the blood on his fingers. He licked the blood.


He hurried to get his jacket and immediately left. He went home and never to spoke about it to his mother.

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…

View original post 120 more words

‘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.

My Character Drawings

Hi there!

This blog is dedicated to my drawings of characters. It will focus on Raneus, from my urban fantasy novel “Raneus” that is currently under development, and Ferry Marlon, a character who I’m still not sure what to do with him.

I hope you like tem 🙂

Ferry karate
Ferry Marlon – a large pogona man, fifth dan in karate and a former army commander



Raneus doodling (2)
Raneus, a humanoid wizard

Raneus dream screen shot

The Ultimate self day dream
Raneus’s ultimate self
Ferry and Gorilla Sensei friend fight
Ferry and his friend
Ferry's Solitary training
Ferry’s solitary training
A quick drawing of Raneus
An old drawing of Raneus – when I had first created him


Raneus walking
Raneus walking the streets of Pohl’s Bay, a fictional city


The following poem is inspired by my overall mood of 2017


Another thought, another mood

Another swing, and angry again.

For nothing. People remain confused

By me. It’s complicated, it twists ’round

It misleads. I think about why I feel

This way. “Why?” I lost to strength,

In a mess, in an unknown zone of

My mind. Lost, confused and angry.


Maybe this way, maybe that way,

Whatever way, I stay the same.

The whole year irritated

With myself, angry at myself

Angry with others, their words from the past

Haunt me, stay with me and I lose.

I ask “Why” and it’s all I can ask.

No answer; must do this alone


No matter how dark and lonely it is

I must find a way out, and feel ease.

I know this: time will tell, be patient

And answers will come to aid.

I must see this through soon,

So I ask “Why? Why do I feel like this?”

The question circles in my head, I confuse myself.

Frustration wells in my soul.