The whisperers whispering

Willow tendrils in the wind

They wisp in and out of subconsciousness

A plague of the unseen

They harry and harass, poke and prod

Applaud my embarrassment

Fiends of over-confidence

I would tear them from my skull

Crush, perhaps, even caress

Turn their whispering upon themselves

If I could, I would, but can’t

They skitter behind tired eyes

Tug on earlobes

Venture down an aching spine

Like the shiverers they are

Cold breaths of the not yet dead

They’re killing me


Without kindness

And so I beg

Shout in silence

Plead with eyes, not voice


The reality, truth

Misunderstood, I appear normal

Perhaps, too normal

For no matter how much I pray

Scream with my an inside voice

I realise to others

They, like me

Are inaudible


50 Word Stories: Tenfold

He kept it in a closed metal casket at the side of his bed. Adorned by nothing other than a cheap lock, he would show it to all his many girlfriends without ever a trace of shame.
“Your heart?” They’d often joke.
“No, my conscience,” he’d tell each in turn.

This Slanted Earth

Slanted image

Slowly, but with purpose true
This Earth revolves upon slanted orbit
With it, the consciousness of its peoples
For, when I see what I see
Hear what I hear
I cannot help but wish we were a little less so
A touch more balanced
Not all askew
If I was God, I think my first job would be
To steady our world and correct our revolving
Before we spin around so acutely
That we all fall flat on our faces