P/ Palm Reading

A piece from my second year Creative Writing portfolio which I can finally share now that I’ve finished my degree. One of my better pieces from my work on my degree. 

Palm Reading

When I was eleven years old
I traced the creases on my palm
with a ballpoint pen, to see
if the lines could tell me
what it meant to grow up.
The black ink just stared back
and asked if I knew who I was.

At thirteen I tried again
with the aid of scissor blades,
hoping that peeling back skin
would reveal what the surface
couldn’t say. But there was nothing
but more skin beneath
obscuring the truth from my eyes.


P/ I’m…

I wrote this poem while I was feeling a bit down, as a vent, so it’s kind of self-depreciating and not all that cheery. I just suddenly had this feeling that the house I grew up in wasn’t home anymore, but neither was anywhere else. It’s not my best work, but it kind of needed to be recorded somewhere as a sort of reminder and motivator.

I’m out of place.

A bomb in a cereal box,

a reindeer in the desert.

I’m so far away

I can’t understand the language.

I’m floating.

Letting the current take me,

going through the motions.


I’ve been away for so long

it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

P/ Apples Are Not the Only Fruit, or, What’s With All the Hags?

Another ‘Pissed Off Princesses’ performance piece. I have another one planned and I’m thinking of how to incorporate a couple of other fairytale princesses into some poems, so expect more like this.

I’ve had it up to here

with old hags.

Every time the dwarves are out

there’s one at the door

with an apple in her hand.

It’s always the same old spiel;

‘it’s delicious’

‘try  it, take a bite’

Yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah.

Well, I don’t want to take a bite.

I don’t accept gifts

from people who give me the heebie jeebies.

I mean,

for all I know

it’s poisoned.

Besides, I don’t even like apples.

I’ve told them all a thousand times;

If you’re going to try and

kill me

with a fruit,

at least pick one that I like.

P/ Rapunkzel

After reading Aurora’s Complaint at a local poetry night I got the idea to create a whole series of ‘Pissed Off Princesses’ performance poems. This is the second in that series.

It was always the same,

day in, day out,

‘handsome’ men calling my name

and demanding I drop my hair down to them

like some glorified rope.

They wanted to ‘rescue’ me

and marry me.

As if.

There was no way I was letting them

climb my tower.


That’s why I changed my hair,

to spite them.

At first I wanted to cut it off,

the lot of it.

Snip! Gone forever.

But then I thought:

How can I really piss them off?


It came to me

while listening to the Sex Pistols.

Of course, why hadn’t I seen it before?

A Mohawk.

It was perfect.

They’d see the length

but there was no way they could climb it.

Besides, I’d always wanted to go Punk.


So the next time some guy came

to the tower claiming to have slain

a dragon to get to me

(which is bullshit, by the way)

and told me to

‘let down’ my hair,

I stuck my head out of the window.

“Whadda ya want?”

I don’t think it pissed him off

so much as scared him shitless.

Which wasn’t quite the desired effect

but seemed to work nonetheless,

since he ran for the hills

and never came back.

P/ Aurora’s Complaint

A little something that came to me. Inspiration struck just as I was supposed to be working…

He thought he was all that,

some kind of handsome bloke who’d win my favour

by swinging his sword around and giving me a kiss

to break my so-called ‘curse’.


I was perfectly happy sleeping, thank you very much.

I didn’t need a knight in shining armour

to come hacking through vines

(which, I’ll have you know,

I’d spent a good deal of time cultivating)

in some misguided quest to ‘save’ me.

Damsel in distress? Bah!

I was capable to taking care of myself,

he just overreacted.

I was only taking a nap.

P/ Oh, Poor Atlas…

A little something written in response to a prompt given at http://poeticalcondition.deviantart.com/, the prompt was to write a piece entitled ‘Oh, Poor Atlas…’, we could interpret it as we wanted to and for me images of Greek mythology were the first things that came to mind.

You can no longer look at the stars as you used to

and admire their beauty like the rest of us – Zeus made sure of that.

Your back is bent, your arms and wrists strained by their weight.

Where we see wonder you see only pain and hardship.

Heracles cared not for this, but left you to endure,

even after your help with his so-called Labours

(though for that brief moment you tasted freedom once more).

How heavy your burden must be, dear Titan,

now so many have climbed your limbs and nestled there.

You are left to hold them above Gaia for eternity,

the weight increasing with every second, slowly breaking you.

All this because you chose the wrong side.

NaPoWriMo 2013 – A Little Thank You

So NaPoWriMo 2013 is over, and I manage to complete it on my first attempt. I probably won’t be submitting so much poetry for the next few months, firstly because I’m not going to be trying to get myself to write a poem a day anymore, but also because I have to start putting together my portfolio for university and start revising for my end of year exams.

Before I disappear off WordPress temporarily though (I’m sure a poem or two, or perhaps a short story, will worm their way onto here at some point), I wanted to thank everyone who followed this little blog and liked my posts over the past month. I’m not sure I’d have kept going without all of you guys. So thank you all for sharing the journey with me – every like, comment and follow brought a smile to my face 🙂