One tear drop represents my long exhausting thoughts

Those wounded, bloodied thoughts represents a girl, distraught

I watched him as he tried to catch me in a hefty windfall

I hid in the hurricane ignoring the boy’s wordless call


Passion grew red in his eyes as he reached out his sturdy hand

My heart resisted as my hand reached out and pushed him back

Waves of common sense yearns to wrap me tight in all its bliss

And sink me to deserted shores surrounded in a shroud of mist


Physicality rejected by my heart’s friend rock and stone

May I be inlove or was I meant to live and die alone

Will he pierce through these walls and capture my heart’s core

Haul me out of these depths into this world like a girl reborn


I picture us together and form the conclusion

The love I’m destined for is merely an illusion


No Soul

Hank hides down in the underground

Like a rattlesnake in pry

He thrives in the toxin compound

Watching New York citizen’s stroll by


He coughs in the smoke of dirt


As he ponders what his future holds

The boss hands him a second roll


His low worth is killing him

So he inhales

Now, the buzz has bitten him


The room’s moving as if it’s taunting him

He coughs out phlegm, smokes another and enjoys the bliss

His inner wakes, he thinks his mind is seeing things

As doors close and unhinge


Dance around him, then shut him out

While the halls prod, guiding him south

What heart awaits at this very hall?




Dead bodies plagued with a tread of souls


He falls in a hole

Empty, black, cold

He touches his cheek

His skin begins to carve away

His bones bend, soft and weak


Ghosts of his past taunt him as he fades

He bleeds of death

Stinks of erosion

His mind erupts

His lungs an explosion


What happened?


Unknowingly, the man gave it away

Let them set it aflame

He had a say

But Hank passed on the blame

Clinging to small, burning pride

He carried on down the hall emulating stride


On the way he fell in to hell

Stuck in a suffocating blacked out cell

It had been sold and he lost his mould

The man had lost his soul


Good Health

Thick shutters distort the view

Blind eyes accustomed to the shade

Succumbed by the dark grey hue

Flickers of light begin to fade


Trapped in this endless faze

Contemplating the end


Lost heart to the thoughts in my head


Stuck in my ways


Distance hurts the soul and mind

A body deprived of love

A life that’s sustained by lies

A closed person in a box


They can’t get in, only I fit in this space

A bleak existence inside

A haggard face

A wasted life


Clouded in doubt

The freedom to spread my wings

To express my thoughts out loud

To truly live


I must wipe away these draining tears

Escape these new lows


Face the world, meet new peers

Shake off dark thoughts, these anchored woes

A former wilting flower I will be

This broken version of my true self

And eventually they’ll see

A girl in good health

How Writing Has Helped Me Personally

Hello! First of all, before I begin, I’d just like to thank those of you that follow me, read, have liked or commented on any of my posts as I have reached 50 followers! Hurrah! It may seem like pittance to those with a large amount of followers, but it genuinely means a lot to me so thank you!

Back on topic, writing has helped me tremendously throughout the years and has become a large part of my life. A day without writing is one of unease. It’s almost alien to me, as I have become accustomed to writing daily. When I am not writing or working on one of my novels I often daydream, playing out scenes in my head, my characters forming a life of their own. If I am away from home, I long to return to my laptop so I can continue to develop my works in progress. The longer I am away, the stronger this urge becomes. It’s both a blessing and a curse.

Writing is something that I have always considered a hobby. It still is a hobby of mine of course, but these last few months I been taking my hobby a little more seriously. Not to say that I wasn’t before, but this is truly the career path I dream of and there’s nowhere else I’d rather end up in life. This is it. It always has been, only I had been living in denial for years.

These are just some of the ways that writing has helped me personally throughout the years.

Has Helped Me Through Dark Times

It’s funny to think of how much I’ve turned to writing during times of emotional stress and difficulty. After many false starts at writing my very first draft many years ago, I’d only managed to write from beginning to end during a particular emotional period. Somehow, feeling all sorts of down motivated me to complete a first draft over the course of a few months. It’s the same scenario with a journal I started to write in 2012. Had I have not been bottling up all of my feelings, I wouldn’t have thought to create a journal, which in turn has helped me tremendously to improve my writing skills. We all have our vices to help us get through dark times and writing just happens to be one of mine.

A Way to Express Myself

Writing is such a great way to express yourself in my opinion and in particular, writing fiction. Your subconscious thoughts, views, traits, inspirations, loves, hates and so forth finds its way into your works of fiction, which makes a novel so personal and unique to its author. A novel is personal because it represents you and the way you see the world, which is why I hold it so close to my heart.

Has Given My Life Meaning and Purpose

Writing has given me something to work towards, a meaning and purpose in this life. It gives me a long term goal of completing several works of fiction and eventually seeking publication through a traditional publisher. I love the art of story-telling and the hidden messages it carries beneath the surface, which can often be inspirational. Writing gives me a chance to be creative, express myself and convey a message I hope to reach readers one day (a girl can dream!)

Something to Focus On

I have such an active mind and imagination, that it’s very easy for me to get lost in all of the things that really don’t matter so much in life. I mull over mistakes that I have made too much and I hate myself for it, knowing that I am not able to go back in time and change things. I sometimes drive myself into a state of sadness thinking about all of the things that I am simply not able to fix.

Writing gives me something meaningful to focus on, a healthy distraction. When I am writing, I realise that none of the other stuff matters so much. I am working on my own goals, towards something bigger and fulfilling. Things like drama and meaningless gossip doesn’t matter. My negative thoughts become irrelevant.


These are just some of the ways that writing has helped me personally. Once again, thank you to any of those that had read any one of my blog posts, liked or followed, it’s very much appreciated!

The RedBull Effect (Short Story)

The ice cold fizz was refreshing as I gulped down a large chug of redbull. Neck back, eyes closed, my insides tingled as the cool liquid made its way into my chest, cooling me down a little from the night’s summer heat. I leant forward on my desk towards my static mini fan, perched on the edge of my desk. My eyes were closing in on themselves.

Snap out of it. 

I forced myself to sit up straight. From left to right, I scanned the numeracy books scattered across my desk and sighed. Once again I’d made a foolish decision and left studying for my maths test until the very last minute. Literally. My test was first thing in the morning, 9am on the dot and I hadn’t revised a single thing. I was screwed, big time.

I rolled my eyes just thinking about the mental pain and exhaustion I’d be forced to work through as I wrapped my head around the algebra, timetables and multiplications I had yet to study, before I could finally tuck myself away under my duvet and fall into a deep sleep. My eyes scanned the pink clock hanging above my bedroom door. 10:30pm.

Already halfway through my can of red bull, I drunk a little more, the sweet smell comforting and yet a little nauseating. It wasn’t half bad, but the energy boost still hadn’t kicked in yet.

I’d never drunk red bull before, but my Dad was practically an addict. He kept about six cans of redbull in the side compartment of the fridge. Desperate for something to help me get through this night, I stole one of his cans from the fridge and chugged it down.

“Red bull give me strength,” I mumbled as my eyes closed involuntarily.

I must have actually fallen asleep, as my sweaty cheek was stuck to a page of my notebook when I next opened my eyes. A jolt of energy shot through my body like a sound wave. I sat up straight, alert, eyes wide open.

“Shit, what time is it?”

My eyes instinctively darted to the clock. Almost 12am.


I picked up a pen next to my notebook and glared at the notes I’d written down. Words swirled like spirals, coloured dots dancing in front of my eyes.

The room begun to spin, twist and turn, my stomach heavy like an anchor had invaded my insides. I pursed my lips shut, feeling a tidal wave of nausea swarm over me. I pressed my mouth against my lips and tightened my stomach, desperate not to throw up, but sick climbed to the back of my throat and lingered.

I stumbled to my feet, one hand clinging to the edge of my desk, the other on the rail of my chair. I pushed my chair back and it fell to the floor as I lunged for my bedroom’s door handle, using all of my weight to pull the door open.

My stomach was bubbling, an uncomfortable heat warming my insides as I crouched to the bathroom adjacent to my room. I practically crawled to the toilet seat on my hands and knees and held my head over the toilet bowl. With one squeeze of my chest I released the contents of my stomach, hurling the steak and chips I’d eaten for dinner into the toilet.

I took a deep breath, the warm bubbles in my stomach cooling to a sizzle. I guess the red bull was a bad idea. Looks like I won’t be having that again. 

As I leant my back against the toilet seat, I realised that my limbs were shaking, my legs jiggling up and down uncontrollably. I wrapped my arms tightly around my legs to stop them from shaking and planted my face in between my knees.

Something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, until I wiped the hot sweat that ran down my nose and to my cheeks. I lifted my arms to see a patch of sweat under my arm pits, then I felt in between my legs, the insides of my thighs completely soaked. I was uncomfortably hot.

Washing my face with cold water did nothing to deter the heat that was arising within my body at an alarming rate.

I need some air.

I gripped my fingers around the stair rail as I lumbered down the stairs. My hands were burning and the sweat on my skin turned into steam. I panicked, short breaths escaping my lips as dots danced in front of my eyes again. What is happening to me? 

My bare arms were actually turning beetroot pink by the time I’d reached the bottom of the stairs and across the hall to the backdoor. I slid my hand under the fuzzy, caramel mat in front of the door and pulled a set of keys from under it.

“Come on,” I said through gritted teeth as I fumbled through the set of keys to find the right one. I struggled to concentrate, my skin now burning. I needed cold air, now.

As soon as I unlocked the door, I flung it open and rolled head first onto cool, wet grass, a welcome cool air brushing against my face. My skin hissed.

Arms spread out, I lay on the ground for a while, allowing the wetness of the grass to soak into my skin and cool me down. I can’t stay out here, I need to study.

As I rolled onto my hands and knees, a sharp jolt of pain shot through my spine. I bit my bottom lip to muffle the scream that threatened to escape my mouth, the pain stabbing at my upper spine. I arched my back, fingers digging into the grass, my toes curling.

Something sharp in my back pierced through my skin. I let out the scream I’d been holding and ripped the grass and mud from under me. My skin stretched and tore apart and I threw my head back, clenching my teeth to stop myself from screaming again. All I could do was mentally pray for someone powerful above to stop this nightmare.

“It is you.”

I heard a delicate, faint voice from somewhere. Blinking the building tears from my eyes, I saw a small girl, about 4ft tall and dressed in white, standing in the corner of the garden from the shadows. She tentatively stepped towards me.

I opened my mouth to speak but I couldn’t find the words, the pain still physically abusing me.

“The one with the power, it is you,” she said. Her voice was calm, almost harmonious.

The girl carried a look of curiosity and innocence as she leant over and reached her thin arm out behind me.

“Your wings. So beautiful. So precious.”

I turned to look behind me, a dull ache in my spine. Thick, white feathery wings leisurely flapped up and down as the girl stroked the wings like some sort of treasured cat. I quickly realised that the wings were coming out of me, from the back of my spine. The air around me grew thin, my breaths laboured.

“Redbull gives wings to the ones they believe is worthy. One with the potential to lead a nation from the skies beyond.”

She reached out her small hand. After some hesitation I grabbed it, scrambling to my feet.

“You must come with me chosen one. Your kingdom awaits.”

Ideal Girl

You sought a girl with minor issues

Someone forward who’ll hold and tease you

Released sprinkles of daily affection

Unaffected by deep depression


A girl that showered you with kisses

Who always talked and rarely listened

A bold and vibrant personality

A mind as clear as the sea


In your future you could never foresee

Falling for a bipolar opposite like me

Moving from Microsoft Word to Scrivener

I have always used Microsoft Word to write and have been using it for quite a while to plan and craft my novels. It’s the default software that I am sure most of us have become accustomed to using and it’s something that I have grown up with. At home, I’d been using Open Office Writer for many years, the free alternative to Microsoft Word, then Pages once I hopped on the Mac train. Still, these are both similar software to Microsoft Word and work in pretty much the same way with minor differences. I have many documents of various novels, hundreds of pages and word counts that reach the six digits. That’s a lot of finger tapping on my keyboard.

The ideas stage of writing is great and perhaps my favourite part of the writing process. Ideas fly into my head as I am writing, my fingers on fire as I write multiple pages of half baked ideas. Before I know it, I have this large document of ideas written down in a scrambled heap.

As great as Microsoft Word can be, it can become more difficult to manage when trying to organise those ideas into some sort of structure. I attempted to tackle this issue by creating a new document for the ideas that I wanted to use, skimming out the excess material. I headlined sections dedicated to the plot, characters, world and so forth, but once again, the document would grow larger, new ideas formulating day by day and it would become unmanageable. Everyday, I’d dread opening up my document because I’d have to scroll down pages of writing, just to get to the section I wanted to work on. With pages adding up to multiple figures, it can get quite intimidating just looking at the document that sits in front of you. It just wasn’t working for me as an efficient way to organise my ideas.

Searching for New Writing Software


When searching for new writing software to use, Scrivener had popped up quite a few times, software designed to help plan and structure long form stories. I was swayed by the fairly positive reviews it had received from Scrivener users, although Scrivener was not free. However, it offered a free trial that you could use up to 30 days, so I downloaded it onto my laptop to test it out.

When I initially tried Scrivener I did not take to it that well. I think I was intimidated by the complexity of it all, which can be hard to take upon first appearances.

Using Scrivener

After giving it a couple of more goes, I have warmed to Scrivener and actually prefer the software to Microsoft Word. It has become an easier and much more enjoyable way to work on my works in progress, breaking down sections of my word documents into manageable parts that are easy to find on the system. Character, Chapters and Locations for instance have their own folders, which you can add your own files to. It makes it very easy to click to the section that you need and want to work on, rather than scrolling down multitudes of pages. On top of that, you are also able to add your own folders to adjust the project to your liking, which all appear in the binder on the left side of your project.

Index Cards on the Cork board

I think one of the best things about Scrivener is that you can write a little synopsis of each scene using index cards. You can write scenes with the synopsis at the right hand corner of the screen to keep track of what is happening, which I think is really useful. I love the option to split screens horizontally or vertically and as I’ve said, it’s so easy to go to the desired section to work on.

Another thing to mention is that you can import files into Scrivener, something I did not discover until I messed around with the software. By importing my WIP’s word document into Scrivener, it made it easy for me to copy ideas from my document and onto my Scrivener project.

Though Scrivener seemed complicated to use initially, using this software has made it easier to manage and work on my novels. I would definitely recommend Scrivener to those that are thinking of using writing software to aid them in the novel writing process.

Deadly Streets

Drugs supplied with ease

Like harmless sweets

Boys armed with deadly skills

Stabbing in the chest to kill


A trail of fatal crime

The end of multiple lives


It’s not safe these days

He learnt that the hard way


Yet another stabbing in the dark

A six inch stab wound straight into his heart

Drowning in his own, thick pool of blood

Light danced in his eyes from the street lights above


The man was stabbed three times in the gut

His neck throbbed from a puss filled, nasty cut

His whole life flashed before his eyes

The man realised he was losing his life


Leaving behind his Bajan wife

A student nurse, Mother and a solid nine

His two and three year old boy and girl

Two children that had meant the entire world


His Parent’s world turned upside down

When the next morning their son’s bloody corpse was found

They vowed that things needed to change

For the boys and girls to put their knives away



That’s my curse

Shy from day one of my birth

Eye contact is hard

It hurts

Conversation’s not my turf


Please don’t ask them who I am

They will never understand

I’m a unicorn on land

A stuck up girl that they can’t stand


Trapped in a shell

My own hell

You can’t tell


Despised to the bone

All alone

Not one positive thought 

That I own


Holed up in my cave

Where I feel safe

From their questioning gaze

Following my every trace

My Mistake

God I miss your smile

The one thing that made work worthwhile

Though I left I’m still in denial

I still dream of a life where you’re mine

You live inside my mind

Most of the time

I lost a dime

A merciless crime


I wanted to stay

But I couldn’t face scrutiny from peers daily

So I ran away

Hid my face in shame

I caved

I know I’m to blame

I’m stupid. Lame

And every single day

I remain ashamed

Of my mistake