Tales from a younger me.

On a night out, high heels, short skirt Music blaring, dancing away Bar cruising, drinks flowing Getting drunk, wobbly shoes Fall forward, reach out Grab onto something Lady infront is on the floor too Skirt down Pull myself up, drunken mess Police asks if I’m doing my best ‘News Shoes!’ I exclaim like I’m sober

Just a statue

Or so they thought He stood there looking so festive in his bright red coat A little bag over his 2ft shoulder His beard all stringy from little fingers His hands solid and posed as though holding the gift glued in place But his eyes told a different story Because they looked so sad behind

Death Visits.

As the pain in my chest grows, my heart pounding as though trying to beat against the bone cage which surrounds it and escape, I feel my breath fleeting; struggling on the intake but rushing to leave me like my soul eager to release its self from this fleshy jail. Death hovers near, beckoning with