You have my word

One word can change your life.

Tag: inspiration

Do not go gentle into those empty lies


Please stop coming to me in my dreams. Please stop curling up defenseless with me while I’m asleep. Please stop filling me with your memories. Please. I can still feel you. Move. Please.

I’ve moved forward; I’ve moved on. I’ve moved so you wouldn’t find me standing still. I have spent all this time being unfrozen, melted to stay away from you. Running. Running water. Free flow. Free. Free. You freeze me. Hard.

I have found value in soft, smooth strength. Slow. Not stuck fast. Slow down, baby, and find yourself. Find your fears in your own night’s sleep. Befriend them – know them and you will know yourself.

Dreams rest between terror’s teeth. Get up close. Tremble with its breath on your neck. Stand up straight. Hold your head high. Do not go gentle into the lies you’ve become comfortable telling yourself. You are done with these, love.

There is nothing left for you in those lies – there is no you left in those lies. Life. The simplest adjustment and you’ll come into so much… more… without me. And that is what is best.

You belong to you. I belong to myself and my own dreams and sleep and peace, and you do not need me. It’s okay.

For the first time I don’t feel guilty for you walking away. I’ve drowned my doubts in those dreams. I am enough without your memories.

I wish you well. Now sleep.

The places I have travelled, you


You say: you are poetry.

I say: you have me undone in three words.

You say: I don’t know what to say.

I say: don’t say anything.

You say: I am in love with a writer.

I say: I am in love with the sunrise. I am awake.

Like a train frames the movement of a bride on her wedding day,

so the sun only sets to frame the trail you leave in the darkness for me to find my way.

Your eyes. Like fireflies. Vibrant. Alive. Bright.

On my bucket list there stands: see the Northern Lights. Aurora Borealis.

That was before there was an us.

I could look at you and feel like I’d seen the world – like I’d met everyone there was to meet, like I’d tasted India and walked Rome and surfed Fiji and climbed Everest and loved every land I let my feet shake hands with.

Your hands. Like oak tree branches. Strong. They know their place. Safe.

I’m that chocolate lad. Not sweet like you’d think; that was never me.

I am dark, through and through.

I am my darkest when I am with you.

Bitter to those who aren’t accustomed to the taste, but you have let me melt on your tongue,

you have let my tongue melt the creases of your waist, the small of your back…

relax into me. I will hold you safe.

I don’t have fancy words to make you stay.

I don’t have instructions for a bad day.

I don’t know any languages other than my eyes to ask you not to leave.

I’ve never even been overseas.

Right now in this instance, it feels like we’re oceans apart so maybe that counts for something?

So when people ask me where I’ve been and what I’ve seen?

I’ll simply tell them I’ve travelled your spine, and scaled your ribs and held handfuls of breast

that I’m sure even the monks would profess

the gods made just for me.

On slow love and instant coffee


She reads the instructions on instant coffee labels and leaves bite marks on shoulders between sheets and sweat. She is not one for you to try understand but rather one to be understood by, for when she plants you in her nail beds like seeds you will never cease to grow.

She will leave you wild, but not unkempt for she knows you can fend for yourself. She also knows that the vines you keep hidden should never grow thick and twisted enough to trip and strangle the ones closest to you. She is closer still – a stem, your spine. She is in the fibre and fight of your roots burrowing, burying what is gone because together… together you rest in peace with roots that run this deep.

You will bud and blossom into everything she touches. And she will touch you. Not like Midas turning everything into gold, but turning you green and full of life. She will uproot what’s dead and convince even your weeds to grow flowers and dandelions. She will pull out the thorns like an affliction you’ve carried far too long – too afraid to let go, too afraid of having empty hands.

With her you will never lack; you will never be empty-handed or thirsty for water and adventure. She sows life back into you from the soil where you soul sleeps. In letting her prune, you are learning to give up control.

While this might explain the bite marks on your shoulder, it will also explain the parts of yourself you don’t recognise. It will explain how you become comfortable in being quiet before the storm – preparing to weather the chaos in your branches and host the thrash alongside the beating of your heart. Bleed the noise into your delicate collapsible veins. Know that the risk exists, that the possibility of being poisoned is very real but worth it.

So when she offers to make you coffee the morning after, and you know it is not French press, slow-brewed or freshly-ground, do not doubt her. Do not second guess her judgement or retract your trust like a daffodil in too harsh sunlight. Let her soak into your skin.

Let her nourish you, regardless of the coffee. She will feed you full and then feast on you as both her garden to tend to and her greener pasture in the South. She will look after you and lose herself in your promise. She will never neglect the tender trimming nor will she get tired of the great outdoors. You are great. You are growing. You are giving.

She is grateful. So she kisses you.

I cried today and let a part of myself go

I cried today. The kind of tears you can’t stop. Not the violent kind that forces their way up your throat and through your eyes, but the kind that take their time to leak and let loose slowly. I cried today in a moment that was so overwhelming and so all-encompassing that the only response I could extend was to let a part of myself go.

I cried today, but not for the reason you might think. I was sat in a pivotal presentation to a client, pitching for a momentous television campaign. We had the concept scripted and storyboarded and presented in a way that would be convincing.

Without warning, I had a Stendhal experience in the middle of it all. He penned his encounter like this:

“my head thrown back, i let my gaze dwell on the ceiling, i underwent the profoundest experience of ecstasy i have ever encountered. i had attained that supreme degree of sensibility where the divine intimations of art merge with the impassioned sensuality of emotion. i long for those rare moments when i shiver with the rush of altered consciousness. in an ephemeral blast of time’s breath, it’s like the universe reveals itself and there is a mutual recognition of all things. but as quick as it manifests it slams shut its window, only leaving the essence like some intoxicating perfume that remains after someone has left the room.”

The power of concept, the standard of writing, the phenomenal application of art culminated in the most moving presentation of art. I was so in awe, so profoundly struck by the treasure it is to be able to create. I am not one to be pretentious or promulgate superfluously about moments like this; my response was not contrived.

I cried today. I sat in the back row of an auditorium and cried the kind of tears that can’t be stopped, and I didn’t care one bit. I cried because it was so overwhelming and all-encompassing that the only response I could extend was to let a part of myself go.