Stay broken


I’d like you to stay broken

That way I can collect the pieces

I can be the one to fix you, time and again

That way I can stay around, I can be useful, I can be valuable

You can need me

I need you to need me

Stay broken so I can be the calm in your storm

That way you can stay dependent

You can remain addicted and I can be your drug of choice

I can be your healer, your saviour and all you have to do is remain broken

I can’t risk fixing you only to lose you

I can’t have you seeing what I am, what this is for what it is

I can’t risk being the only broken one

So stay broken

I can’t fix you only to break myself any further

If I break anymore, I think I might disappear

So I’d rather remain broken if you’re here with me

Two broken people

A pair of shards

A couple of un-whole people just finding our way


Stay broken, for me.


My muse


You were always my muse

I used your image, the lines on your face, the timber of your voice, the smell of your skin as fodder to fuel my literary libations.

I took the words you so innocently offered me, the touches you so carelessly threw my way and the confusing stares in my direction to create worlds, emotions and feelings that hinged on the very breath and word you possess.

I used you.

I took what you had, what you had given me and I used it all to fashion a universe where our casual encounters, gentle and often heated exchanges were more than figments of a vibrant imagination, but they were water and air, and life, they were real.

I made sure to inhale as much as you could unknowingly offer, held it all in and breathed life into the very creations that fixed me… tried to fix me.

I used you, my muse, to heal me.

I took your hands and I had them mould me a set of wings, I used your lungs and breath to provide the gust of wind I needed and I used your eyes to lead me in the right direction.

You once asked me if I’d ever used you, if you were ever my muse, and I lied.

I lied because you could take it away. Without you the worlds crumble, the wind stops and the wings fall apart. Without you I can’t fly.

So yes, you’re my muse. I need you to heal me now, because the you I created before, the one I used to convince myself that we were meant to be, broke me and now I need you to fix me.

I need you to be my muse.

Empty pages

How do you guys do it?

Okay so maybe I’m asking the wrong question here. What I really want to know is how you keep it; how you don’t let it slip through your fingers; how you’re able to let it burn long enough to get through the trenches and how you ignite it when you need it?

Yes, I said “trenches”, because it feels like war, and no I’m not referring to any relationship, although you could see it that way. The give and take exists, the love and hate, the good times, the joy, the heartbreak, it’s all there. So yeah, I guess you can look at the dynamic between yourself and inspiration as a relationship.

But yes, I’m talking about inspiration.

It used to be easy; I’d stumble across a wayward thought, I fragment of an idea and I’d expand on it like turning water into wine or breaking bread for the masses. I don’t mean to compare myself to Jesus, but when you’re in it, when your head’s glued to that screen, when those words flow through you like the rivers of Babylon and when those ideas, plots, words and lives are given breath from the very tips of your fingers, you can’t help feel powerful.

Now my question is how do you sustain or reignite that power, because it’s inebriating, it’s consuming and affirming. I feel like I’m in control of everything when I have it, when it’s flowing through me and I’m good with it, I feel like the things that lurk in the shadows don’t exist, that I can be fulfilled, that I have people. That’s what it feels like when I write, that’s what I’ve been missing.

I mean I’ve had moments, brief, fleeting fancies with that elusive lady called Inspiration, but I’ve never been able to hold audience with her long enough to feel that kind of fulfilment I once took for granted.

I could call it writer’s block, but the words exist. The characters are alive and kicking and the ideas are very much waiting to be released. I just can’t get past a few lines, a paragraph if I’m lucky, before she slips away under the cover of reality. The walls and worlds I once had at the tip of my fingers, the kind of magic I once wielded wanes and I’m…impotent. I guess that’s exactly what writer’s block is, but this feels different, it just feels…worse.

I had it, I was powerful; once you’ve tasted it, you have to have it again. You feel like your very existence, most notably your sanity, depends on it. I’m probably being overly dramatic, but when the walls are caving in around me in the real world, I need to know that I can still build my very own in a world where I can be both prince and pauper.

So I need to know how everyone else manages to keep it. How do you let the words flow, how do you turn water into wine and how do you conjure it up at will, because I need it?

I want to feel strong somewhere, it just so happens that somewhere isn’t here.

But I don’t know how to get back to the place where I once was.