Cardiff I work in mental health which is pretty stressful sometimes so my outpourings are my release. Please note that all works posted by me are the intellectual property of Calpurnia Mockingbird and as such are covered by copyright law (yawn).
"I will be fea 582 followers / 10.7k words
Like the coming of the seasons Expected yet revered the tide whispers in bringing with it the cries of the oyster catchers to soothe my weary brow. Foam twists and wanes rushing to my form only to turn tail and reappear within a ripple of time. This water holds my soul She heard my raging birth as I heard her raging heart We are connected My turmoil hers her turmoil heavily mine as the moon sits uneasily upon her horizon.
Whispers surround me my name murmured in a thousand dialects though I am alone. Blue sky thinking black sky despair, unpleasant bedfellows for a corpse. Hope lies steadily, her icy depths temptation, her followers below glad eyed and grinning. I am loss eternal I do not beckon to the light, I only live within the black of my heathen creation.
Did you hear me whisper through the rustling of the leaves? Did you feel my kiss up on your brow as I swirled among the trees? Did notice how my love for you shone with the midday sun? Although for now, we are apart we'll always be as one
Did you hear my happy laughter in the babbling of the brook? see my eyes among the bluebells? won't you take another look? Did you hear my song sung gently with the stirring of the pines? a song of longing for the day when your heart lives with mine.
I will search for you on rooftops when the moonlight lights the tiles I will search in each reflection for the light once in your eyes I will dance with every passing breeze and howl into the rain until you come back home to me to live in peace again.
I was reading Wuthering Heights a while back and became obsessed with Cathys obsession with Heathcliff. So this poem is dedicated to her inspiration.
A friend asked me how to be a writer. I wanted to say, lock yourself in a room, scream until you have a poem and no voice. Open your veins and bleed until you know that your bones are pure words and sorrow. Act as if you slit your own throat and all you can bleed are your own regrets and all of the darkness you boxed up for inspiration. Write your mom a letter, tell her you're leaving and you won't be back for awhile Because being a writer is traveling through all seven layers of **** and denying anything is wrong. Forget loving yourself when all you have is a pen and paper fused to your wrist and Jesus is tapping at your skull saying turn back now. Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning It's just your soul clawing at the front door trying to get in. Learn how to be alone. Learn how to lose everything you have in order to feel release, learn how to only feel deceased from now on. A friend asked me how to be a writer. All I said was don't