Friday, January 19, 2018

Update - My Scribbles

Quiet Storm - Poetry

love to write. It's an absolute necessity for me and on a daily basis, I'll prioritise writing over socialising, resting and eating.

I've been writing, creating and imagining since I can remember and as a child, there was no place where I loved to be, more than my imagination. I spent my summer days, lost in my make-believe worlds, exploring exotic jungles, discovering new planets or unearthing some ancient ruins, which could mean the end of our world as we knew it. However, between my mid-teens and mid-twenties, my imagination took a back seat and I sort of lost myself, easing into a cesspit of depression.

With some supportive and influential intervention from a handful of very dear people, though, I rediscovered my passion and need for imagination. I began to write again and sometimes, in genres which I had never dappled in before. Soon I was uploading  streams of poetry, fiction and non-fiction onto this blog and to my delight and complete surprise, people were listening.

I immersed myself within the online creative community. I reached out to others, became inspired by others' stories and experiences and posted on my blog daily. However, I was also working on a series of fantasy novels, which had began when I was fifteen and between, my novel, my blog and my job, I was stretched to breaking point. I had to step back from something. Unfortunately I couldn't quit my job and I was determined to finish and publish my novel so to my sorrow, my blog would need to be the sacrifice, for now anyway.

So I've been dedicating myself solely to my novel and over the last two-and-a-half years the fatigue is starting to set. Seven drafts in and the light at the end is becoming brighter but I find my momentum is fading. The last few weeks in particular, I've been struggling to find my motivation, I know what to write but I'm just not super excited about it but at the same time, I really want to write.

I took a few days off writing, turned the bass up to max on my sound bar, switched on the YouTube app and engrossed myself in music from my favourite musicians. I began to feel a little more at ease after a day or two but I could still get a sense of underlying anxiety ebbing at me. I knew what needed to be done.

I didn't know what I was going to write but I knew it had to come out, it was the only thing that could reveal and alleviate my whispering worries. Taking a fresh coffee, my pouch of tobacco and my humble refill pad to the back seat of the car, I played some YouTube and put pen to paper, in hopes that something would come out.

I suppose I had been so involved with the novel, that a bunch of my ideas and thoughts had built up and I needed a creative release. 

I really do miss posting here on a regular basis and I am truly sorry that I can't do it more often. I'm on the final draft before the manuscript is sent to an editor, which will free up some time and energy for imagination exploration and more frequent posting. Until next time, I give you Quiet Storm 

Quiet Storm

Calloused fingers, 
A ridged forehead, 
Coffee stained teeth, 
Tobacco scented breath and a curved spine, 
Stuck for the words to explore my mind, 
Just scrawling and hoping something will align, 
Waiting for the spark to drive my mood, 
My story 
My tale 
But that's no good,

Who am I but a scared little girl? 
Lost the fight to the world,
No will 
No strength 
No energy to argue, 
Apathy and compliance is all I know, 
What happened? 
Where did I go?

There was once 
A time 
When I 
Was a force to be recognised, 
A storm of destruction 
On the path of those who did me wrong, 
A crusader for those too weak to stand strong, 
When I was good I was very very good 
But when I was bad I was a cunt, 
A rigid and unyielding sense of justice, 
The confidence of youth, 
Friends few and far between, 
Finding solace in my mind, 
My imagination the playground of my heart and soul, 
My world 
Where I came alive,

But time drags you along 
Even with heals dug to the ground, 
And the imaginary games must die down, 
Left behind with tender youth 
Disregarded to the trash 
Along with my gargantuan barbie doll stash,
My greatest lament of all - the passage of time,

Grow up now 
Be like the rest 
Put away the toys 
Fancy all the boys 
Plaster your face 
Worry about your waist 
You have to care 
About bleaching your hair,

A refusal to conform,
A choice to stand alone 
Against the pressure of my peers 
My punishment ebbed for years 
And many years to come, 
A maddening pattern 
Of isolation 
And rejection, 
Opinions quietened, 
Passion for justice subsided, 
The drip of apathy seeped through my back, 
My only escape, 
My English class, 
Where once again my imagination enveloped my being 
Nurturing my landscapes 
Birthing my people 
Breaking free of the passing of time 
Lost entirely in those worlds of mine,

Confidence gone, 
No love for the self, 
Tricked into loving another, 
A youthful heart can know no better, 
And used, 
All for your sick pleasure , 
You found me at my most impressionable 
And set the distorted mold, 
Crafted me to your twisted perfection 
Before pounding me down 
To the squishy mound 
Within your iron hold, 
Nothing but games 
Or threats, 
I was too clouded to see 
That your need for me 
Was far greater than mine 
For you 
Could ever be, 
The distance probably saved my life,

Freed of your grasp 
And ever looming knife, 
I lived on, 
Grew strong, 
Appreciation of the heart 
And mind, 
A lesson to never will them up as eagerly again, 
My voice boomed a little more 
But my nerve could not match, 
My hardened exterior only a front 
It even fooled me 
Right from the start, 
I absorbed all of life's problems 
Like a sodden sponge 
Allowing it to seep through 
Embedding as concealed anxiety, 
Only a few quick slices to my flesh 
Could lessen the pressure, 
Self harm they call it, 
It was a necessity, 
Not a cry for help 
But a private incision, 
A precise focus on the pain 
The tears would diminish 
And control the tension,

All the while 
Youth slips further away 
Partnered with confidence and belief, 
Nagging sense of disdain 
Incessant hum of anxieties 
Never to cease, 
A man's world 
Dog eat dog 
Sink or swim, 
No regard 
No glory 
No place 
For the story 
Of the little lady 
The famished runt 
The drowning poet, 
Beaten and battered 
Doubted and disregarded,
I gave up 
I quit, 
Nothing else mattered,

I locked my journal away
My notebooks 
My paints 
My pens too, 
Accepting the chill of life 
Until I could feel no more, 
Consumed by numbness 
Overcome with apathy, 
Just as the drone or the soldier ant 
I fell in line, 
My purpose for pittance,
To serve 
To please 
To smile,

The spiral it took me, 
Deep to my shadow depth, 
Fantasies absorbing to leave this world, 
Mind racing, 
Each repressed thought 
Edging it's way out 
Oozing through every pore, 
A gasp for air 
Double beat of the heart 
And crippling 
Body soul and mind, 
The breakdown had come, 
Had come just in time,

You see 
The thing 
With being broken down is 
You can 
Once again 
Be built back up,
And for me 
It was liberty, 
Not built to meet perfection 
But built to be 
Simply me,

With my therapist's advocacy, 
It became clear to see
That my core 
My joy 
My passion 
Was rooted in the literary, 
And with her introduction 
To a wonderfully soulful poet, 
My mind began to flourish, 
I again delved into my reality,
I had awoken, 
Numbness fading 
Passion and ambition had spoken, 
Self belief they call it, 
A necessity, 
Unfamiliar to me, 

Mind clearer 
Heart lighter 
Soul free, 
I write and write, 
On my break 
On my lunch 
My evenings spent, 

Calloused fingers 
Ridged forehead 
Coffee stained teeth 
Tobacco scented breath and a curved spine 
Each a badge of honour 
Which are truly mine, 
I will paint my magical landscape, 
My imagination 
My eager escape 
As I frolic with my playful words, 
And even if no-one is to listen 
I will go on, 
For I am apart of the stars 
Which glisten. 


This song in particular stood out in my quest for inspiration

© Sarah O’Regan



  1. I know how you feel. I started writing young, at twelve. I started rewriting four of the books I finished at seventeen. I've had many revisions and drafts of the first book in that series. As as matter of fact, I just tweaked it two weeks ago! LOL

    Powerful poem. :)

    1. I think for some, writing is a way of life. It's something that we have to do and when we don't, we just don't feel ourselves. There's nothing like that one story which we hold so dear either, it's a thrill delving into that world with familiar characters isn't it? 😊

      Thank you so much for taking the time to read it, and your wonderful comment is so warming, it's a great feeling to know someone is listening 😊

  2. This comment has been removed by the author.