New book! 

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It’s all been a bit quiet on the ole’ Western Front, eh? 

Well, I have been busy in many areas…one of which has been putting together this collection of poems (new and old) that’s available on Amazon right now! Seriously…go take a look…it’s right there 😉

Let me know what you think…I love the cover! 

Well, hello!

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Hey strangers!

It’s been a while since my last blog post…a lot has changed here as Casa Emma and I’ve been a little wrapped up in a few things that have kept me away from writing, but I’m back!

Slight change of subject, but if any of you perverts have any interest in spirituality and the Law of Attraction, pop over to my new blog… (drum roll please…)

https://fftsblog.wordpress.com/

I’ll still be popping back here to litter your lives with filth, but it’s time to start writing about my other passions and hopefully help a lost soul or two…

This stuff isn’t new to me, it’s been part of my life for as long as I can remember, but I’m better equipped to write about it now and in a much better place to ‘put it out there’….Enjoy!

The Way He Broke Me

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The sky is a cloudless blue, the birds are chirping happily, mocking me, the breeze is warm for this time of year, and this part of the world. I’m lying on the grass, staring up at a never ending vastness, feeling the sun kiss my skin in a way it hasn’t for such a long time, and I’m aware that this is heaven. But I don’t feel like I’m in heaven. I feel like I’m in hell.

Last night he broke me.

And not in the way that I wanted to be broken; not in the way that in years to come, I will ask to be broken.

He broke something entirely different. Shattered it. Took it, fragile as it was, and crushed it in his bare hands right in front of me. And he doesn’t even realise it yet, because he hasn’t come home.

He put his hand around my throat; 10 years from now, when a man puts his hand around my throat, it will be on my terms. Not this time. But that didn’t break me.

He spat vicious words in my face. Words that were so vile they dripped like acid on every kind, loving word he had ever uttered before. But that didn’t break me.

Fuelled by the vodka, he vomited, pissed, stumbled, and smashed his way around my tiny flat, the only place I could call home so far away from my friends and family. But that didn’t break me.

He looked at me, with so much contempt, so much hate. There was no love in his eyes; eyes I had gazed into for years, eyes that laughed when he smiled. There was no familiar voice in his eyes that reassured me this wasn’t real, this wasn’t him, this wasn’t a game. These were different eyes. These were filled with blackness and anger.

That’s what broke me.

I loved the way he looked at me; like I was beautiful, special, his…

That look…the one that was cold and new, the one I didn’t recognise, the one that frightened me, was one I would never forget. And that lasting image would burn so vividly in my mind that every time I looked at him in the days, weeks, months, that followed, it would be all I could see.

That look broke me.

Destroyed the very part of me that those same eyes had helped to create.

It would be a lie to say that this one event, this one evening, was the reason we fell apart. In truth, my world had been crumbling for quite some time, I just couldn’t see it…didn’t want to. But years from now, when I look back at what went so horribly wrong, this one night would stay with me. It would be the linchpin. The catalyst.

It was a slow death, my love for him. Excruciatingly painful and one that I fought tooth and nail until I couldn’t fight it any more. When I finally left, I was exhausted…broken.

The funny thing about being broken, shattered into a million pieces, is that the only direction you can go is towards repair. We are all fighters at heart, all capable of strength, and our will to survive is primitive and primal. Even doing nothing, letting time slip away, our soul fights to repair the smallest of the breaks. There is nothing we can do about that, even if we long to stay in pieces.

Even at our lowest, time keeps moving us forward, and from the bottom, there is only up.

I was lying on the grass, staring up at the bluest of blue skies. Time didn’t care that I was forever changed, and from where I was, I could only stand up and keep going.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars…” – Oscar Wilde

She

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When I looked at her, I saw nothing of particular value.

She was odd looking. Countless imperfections and her features were…’off’. Her hair was average, at best, and she never really had any idea of what to do with it. She could straighten it, but it was never particularly straight. She could leave it wild and natural, but it was never the glossy curls the other girls had.

She could be loud…out spoken…Just a ruse, really. A facade to pretend she didn’t really care what she looked like. Or maybe to make sure she was actually noticed…either way…

When I looked at her I felt endless pity. She so desperately wanted to be ‘pretty’.

People paid her compliments, but she never believed them. Hell, I paid her compliments, but she never believed me either. She’d smile and say thank you (on a good day), she’d laugh and call them liars (on a bad day).

I could look into her eyes and see so much sadness. Oh, she masked it well, and if you didn’t know her as well as I do, you could be forgiven for thinking she was doing just fine…but I knew she wasn’t…not really.

Over the years, so much has changed, and so little at the same time. She doesn’t look the same anymore. Don’t get me wrong, nothing has changed about her features, her face, even her hair (except perhaps she is a little more adept at styling it now), but she looks completely different.

Maybe it’s a maturity thing. Maybe I grew up, and perhaps I don’t look for beauty in the same way I once did. Maybe it’s because she removed herself from all the negative and surrounded herself with positive, and that darkness no longer casts shadows on her face to make her look…’distorted’. Who knows…

She still has bad days, but they don’t pull her down anymore. Everyone has bad days. And on a good day, those countless imperfections are barely visible.

But one thing is for certain; that girl…in the mirror…she doesn’t look sad anymore.

I love…

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And, while I’m looking at my poetry back catalogue….here’s another. One of my favs…

I love the juxtaposition.
I love the dark and light.
I love the gentle, teasing touch, while one hand holds me tight.

I love the contradiction.
The affection and the fear.
Romantic whispers speaking threats that only I can hear.

I love the violent contrast.
The gentleness. The pain.
I love mind-clearing catharsis that can render me insane.

I love the freedom in restraint.
The clarity of control.
I’m more myself when I’m someone else’s; mind, body, and soul.

Give me…

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I wrote this several months ago, when I was reading far too much dark, classic literature. Today, a conversation reminded me of it…

Give me darkness, for I am burdened
Give me light, for I am blinded
Give me pain, for I am aching
Give me ecstasy, for I am yearning

Give me touch, and taste, and sound, and smell of flesh on flesh and hold me.

And in those fleeting moments, save,
to memorise each sense of me, and us, and this
and hold me.

If I…

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If I told you you could hurt me,

Would you take away my pain?

If I told you you I craved sunlight

Would you make sure I had rain?

If I told you you could tie me down

Would you free my mind and soul?

If I told you you could break me

Would you try to make me whole?

If I told you I was yours to keep

Would you share me with them all?

If I told you you could catch me

Would you make sure I could fall?

If I asked you to stand next to me

Would you put me on my knees?

If I told you I would kneel for you

Would you want to worship me?