We Are Flowers | Stream of Consciousness

A field, full of armoured tanks and soldiers and guns – covered in beautiful, cut and wild flowers.

We march past, and people stop to take photos – turning war into Instagram.

We are flowers – once growing and beautiful but cut for the purpose of display and beauty, so we die. We add chemicals or dyes, we flatten and press them to try and preserve the life we have already taken. But we are flowers – once cut from our stem, we perish.

And as is the way of things. A beauty designed not to last. We are ruined by the spoils of greed and war – wanting more world than our home grown field. But one flower only needs one home to nurture it.

We long for youth and beauty and longevity- but they cannot co-exist. Time will make graves from us all.

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writing, happening |poetry

head, pounding

screen, glaring

glasses, sliding

fingers, typing

words, appearing

backspace, clicking

pauses, lengthening

blood, bumping

breath, holding

why?

writing, happening.

 

Mist-ed Coffee Morning (poem)

a memory trapped in a coffee shop

its mist-ed rained window panes

sheltering us from the air

letting us hide

for a moment longer

in the steam cloud of secrets

pretending it wasn’t about to end

Chapter Eleven | Finding Jennifer Book Teaser

Here is a little taste of what’s going on in Chapter Eleven of my upcoming novel – and sequel in the SEARCHING FOR KATHERINE series, FINDING JENNIFER. Enjoy!

finding-jennifer-chapter-eleven-extract

The Fraudulent Writer | Prose | 22 Blog Series

There’s nothing worse than feeling like a fraud. Telling people you’re something, an ideal, that you haven’t been in a very long time.

I am a writer.

Lies, all lies. Haven’t been one of those for months now. And months, inside the head of a strangled creative, is a lifetime when you can’t express yourself. Everything comes out harsh and dramatic and whiny. You and the keyboard aren’t talking anymore. You can’t bring yourself to open your manuscript and stare at words a past version of you typed and labored and loved.

The world is in a funk, that grey mess of a cloud; your brain turning to soup. Like an addict, your cells are dying the longer you pretend to live a normal life. That 9-5er day in day out dragging you down into the mundane abyss of the working age. Any attempt to take yourself back to your own personal Renaissance ends in a self-hating war that lasts days.

Nothing happy sticks.

Not being able to get out of bed in the morning, even though there is nothing officially wrong with your life, no one understands. That sinister melancholy clutching onto your skin like a cheap shower gel that won’t wash off. No amount of scrubbing or crying or screaming is going to get that melancholy off.

Not until you get the fuck out of your own head. GET OUT! Stop being a liar, a fraud claiming to be creative! Stop being the one that can’t see past the cloud. Where’s your curiosity? Run through the fog, arms flailing, singing along to stupid songs that make you want to dance.

You always want to write when you’re happy. And that boy is making you happy. You’re just being stubborn. So stop being a misog. Go and fucking write.

 

Read the rest of the 22 Blog Series here. 

Your Past Made You Amazing | Picture

it made you amazing 13.6.16

Originally posted on my Instagram feed. Follow me at: www.instagram.com/melissaholden94 for more posts like this!