Writer’s Block – A Poem

He sat by the keyboard and eyed the knife,

And wondered to himself,

“Is this worth my life?”

But he raised the blade anyway,

And with despair he cried,

“Why did you desert me? Why oh why?”

And as the steel dug deep,

The blood began to pour,

And he knew, in his heart,

In his soul,

That he couldn’t do it anymore.

As the keys turned red,

And his sight grey hazy,

He wondered to himself,

“Am I really this crazy?”

His head fell to one side,

And his mind turned to mud,

Viscous, dripping, gloopy and thick,

Just as inspiration struck,

And he said to himself,

“What a kick in the dick.”

Bury Me in the Garden

Bury me in the garden,

So that I can be with the living,

The beautiful things that grow.

Leave no mark upon the grass,

No cross should be raised,

Nor a plaque with my name,

Just bury me beneath the bulbs,

And above the songs of worms,

And let the world be as it should be,

Above my grave.

Bury me in the garden,

The space is yours to choose,

For I’ll spread out amongst the soil,

Like a flare burning bright in the cosmos.

The soil is my sky,

Each pebble and stone a sun

Or planet waiting for me to visit.

And I will, one day, one night,

As I slip away beneath a dirty heaven,

Find a place.

Bury me in the garden,

And I will become a tree,

Though perhaps not one that you will believe can,

Grow to become a beacon of leaf and bark,

Where fairies come to dance.

My roots will fall forever,

Cementing me as one/some,

And I will live above and below,

Singing and blooming,

In my garden grave.

I beg you to bury me in the garden,

So that I am never too far away,

Where I can watch my world once again,

Learn to sing and dance and play,

And maybe even forgive me for

It was I who volunteered to leave.

I’ll rest my heart in the garden,

Retrain my brain with the blooms,

And know my soul is only a short walk away,

Waiting to see you soon.


I’ll Never Hold Him

His hands are points of certainty

The only things I know,

a salve against the burns

that keep me tied.

He smiles

Green teeth, yellow or white,

His breath is the only outside,

The only breeze from beyond


Only sometimes,

I pretend I’m by a pond.

He’s sitting on a blanket,

bread between his knees,

his fingers tickle mine

but even here,

by this pond,

on this blanket,

with this bread,

I don’t want him,


His voice promises me,

one day he’ll let me go,

only if I’m a good girl,

a girl who is enjoying herself,



tell him I want more.

He draws me pictures with his

cigarette light.

A dog, a rabbit, a knife.

He draws them for me,

while I’m on the floor,

listening to my bones bleed.

I remember my learnings,

and give a little laugh,

even though it makes me

cry, and wish that I was

flying through velvet,

diving through


He tells the baby to stop

crying, it’s stopping him from sleeping

I thrash against the ropes

that cut and burn some more,

but I can’t walk,

my legs tingle and slide,

they’re wet,

there’s no strength left,

it’s too soon and the dark is laughing,

Laughing at my empty belly.

Laughing while it’s crying.



right back at the black

‘cos it still thinks I have that piece

all humans have

that gives a flying monkey fuck

about getting laughed at

by the


There’s a crunching noise I’ve never heard before.

It steals away the laughter and the crying,


and in the silence, the noise is terrifying,

the silence has no puppy whoofs,

or thud,


thud of first steps.

No nothing or anything,

a little it with no life now.

And a twig snaps somewhere inside

that when I was taken from my own mummy’s side,

From beneath her velvet scarf, in an aisle of bread

As she saw the chocolate that slipped my grip

Did she hear the noise I do now?

Has she heard it since?

His teeth are by my face again

his hands are wet, sticky,


The only things that are certain.

Cruel Crown

White light crackles along my skin,

So bright and hot it turns pink black,

Searing, burning, drawing blood the scars weep,

But this is the price I pay for my crown.

No gold has been spun or crafted,

Nor either has any silver been banded,

Wrapped like a web around a myriad of jewels,

That is the crown sought only by fools.

My own is different, distinct and unique,

It is my own and my own I shall keep,

It hurts me and harms me,

You bet,

That’s true,

But it too is what makes me more Conner than you.

A hundred memories I remember,

A million more I cannot,

A hundred thousand different thoughts,

The imagination that crafts my books,

Every pound of fat that’s changed my looks,

All of them are within my crown of white light.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown,

So they say,

But stronger must the soul be that bears,

A billion whispering tales of theirs,

That haunt and hurt and lift and soar,

For words, when they’re said, aren’t yours anymore.

Now they rest within my crown,

The white light that’s so heavy it burrows my frown,

But every slight,

Every dark and scary night,

Only bolsters my crowns might,

And add more bright to its white light.

You might want my crown,

Perhaps you do not,

But if you can see it you know it’s mine,

The whole lot,

And if you can not,

Then why do you care a jot?

If I write about my crown,

When your own,

You forgot.



Do you think the sun will like me?

Tell the stars I’m ready to meet them,

The universe I’m ready to Be,

Tell the mountains I’ll never climb them,

I commit myself to the sea.

Despite the allure of grandeur,

The future offers me,

I’m just not strong enough to reach out,

Only weak enough to bleed.

I write because there’s no one to talk to,

So I make up people that do,

I write there hopes and dreams,

And hope they might one day come true.

But I plan for when I’ll drizzle honey light,

Across an inky sky of faded night,

On top of a city full of sleeping souls,

Maybe then I’ll have done something right.


Once I dreamed of a house by the beach,

With a fridge full of cake easily in reach,

A dog by my chair and a cat on my lap,

Ha! Wouldn’t that have been a peach?

Believe in Yourself

So things have been quite tough for me recently, emotionally. Sending my first book out into the world and hearing back from people that don’t want it has been a blow I thought I could handle with aplomb – I was wrong. It’s been tough, but I have to be tougher. And that’s why I wrote this short poem. Purely because I’ve learned the difference between ‘believing’ in myself and ‘trusting’ in who I am.

Believe in your self and the world will follow,

But no one tells you how hard it is to truly believe.

When the chips are down and your spirits out,

That’s when bravado fails,

And you’ll know the truth.

Believe in yourself and you can achieve your dreams,

But not if they run too fast or soar too high,

For then your dreams wont ever turn,

Into anything you can hold in your hand,

Or touch with your heart.

Believe in yourself and bitter words can’t reach you,

But what if those words play siege and not battle?

Hovering and waiting for your resolve to falter,

To look you in the eye,

Just to spit in your face.

Believe in yourself and the world is your oyster,

But what if oysters are not to your taste?

Then the world is nothing but fear,

Curdling and spoiling the delicacy of life,

And pretending it was always yours to take.

Believe in yourself and nothing more,

For with that resolve comes ignorance of failure,

A weakening of the lessons that would temper your naivety,

Insulating you from what you love most,

And promising you, you didn’t want it anyway.

Believe in yourself – please do,

But make sure that you trust in yourself too,

For when the chips are down and life is spoiled,

When doubt is king and bitter words can’t be foiled,

That trust will be what turns failure into something won,

And that belief will be what helps you go on.

Beware the Lilliey Byrd

Beware the squawk of the Lilliey Byrd,

Her nose hooked like a beak,

With teeth both knarled and twisted,

To only a few she’ll ever speak.

Beware the shadow of the Lilliey Byrd,

Her skin is covered in feathers,

And her eye can see without hindrance,

No chain on Earth can tether.

Beware the will of the Lilliey Byrd,

Her feet grow claws that tear,

Spell and spear all fall short of piercing,

Her hide can withstand without scare.

Fearsome does as fearsome wishes,

The Lilliey Byrd doles out Death’s Kisses,

We’ll never know why or where she came,

Pray she never squawks your name.