A quiet room. A blank wall. Is this all I have left to live for? Sometimes I wonder whether it’s worth it. I’ve thought about that a lot since I’ve been here. I’ve thought about lots of things. It’s the only thing to do. Sometimes I think back to before I came here. When life was more colourful, and less silent. But that was then, and this is now, and anyway, things back then brought their own problems.

Sometimes, I try to imagine a splash of colour, like before. Colours weren’t that noticeable then, but I think I appreciated them all the same. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I took them for granted, like everything else. What I wouldn’t give for some colour now. A bit of purple, a smidge of pink, a splash of red. What I wouldn’t give for a splash of red. The colour of passion, of love, of danger.. of life itself.

This blank space makes you crazy. It makes you think of life. It’s like you’re slowly watching it ebb away, and while there’s a part of you that tries desperately to claw back every single moment of it, part of you just longs for the end. I’ve done both things. Sometimes at different times, sometimes at the same time.

I used to dream in colour, but not anymore. It’s like I forgot how to over time. I still remember them. I remember them vividly, but that’s all they are — memories. It seems strange, this blankness. It should be black here- there are no colours, and that’s the definition of black — but it’s not. There’s no black. No white — not even a grey. In a place so void of colour, it’s not really surprising if you start to obsess about them. I wished for a blue room or death yesterday. Neither were forthcoming.

Sometimes I think I’m just unlucky, sometimes I think I’m being punished. Either way, it doesn’t matter. The fact is, I’m still here. In this empty, quiet, dull room. My old life — the one before feels like a distant memory. A myth, a story. As days go on, it feels less and less real. Am I forgetting or getting lost? I don’t know. Nothing seems real anymore. Pink died months ago, and yellow left last week. The colours are all fading.

Sometimes I worry that I’ve caused it. In my old life, they said I had a blank outlook. Is that why I’m in a blank room? What I wouldn’t give right now to have a different outlook, if it would give me even a hint of colour. The thought of it, to me, is like finding an oasis in the desert. Highly impossible, yes, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if it happened. Just thinking about it kept me going for days, but now, as the colours go dim, washed out by… I don’t know what, death seems like a blessed relief.

I see it out there sometimes, it looks like a small dot of pigment. I try to reach out and catch it, but it always bounces away. It seems strange now, in this room full of regret, to see that I caused this. I made it happen. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. You think of all the things you would do differently, if only you had a chance to do things over.

In my old life, just before I came here, I longed for still and quiet. Everything was so bright; so busy. I would have done anything for some peace. I did. That’s what makes this so confusing. I thought I wanted this. How could anyone want this? It’s the worst feeling in the world. Floating somewhere between this life and the next. Or possibly, the last. I don’t know anymore. I’ve lost track of it all. I don’t know what day, week, month or year it is. I’m surprised I still remember my name.

It’s like being asleep, and wanting to wake up, but this time, I can’t. I’m stuck in a nightmare, and there’s no coming back from it. How I wish there was. If only I could just will myself awake. I guess you think I deserve it. Sometimes I think that too.

Green. That’s what would be nice. A lush green field. That’s what I thought it would be like. Instead, I’m stuck here; in nothingness. In limbo. I don’t know how long I’ve been here now. Feels like forever. You know when they say people who lack one sense have their other senses heightened? It’s sort of like that here.. but it’s different. Imagine all your senses working perfectly, but there’s nothing at all to stimulate them. Now do you see why I’m going crazy.

I think I must be going crazy. There’s no other explanation. I’ve always hated orange. The colour. The fruit. Everything about it. You know you’re losing it when you begin longing for things you hate. Sometimes I see things. It’s like a flash of colour. I don’t know if it is or not. It’s over too quickly to tell.

I tried to tell myself yesterday that this was not my life. See whether, if I refused it, it would let me go. Release its hold on me and send me forwards or backwards. I don’t really mind which right now. Anywhere would be better than here.

In the beginning, I heard things. Beeps; and sometimes voices. They sort of drifted in and out of my hearing, but far away. At first I wished them away, and kept looking forward to what I thought was coming. It had come so close, but then it stopped. It stopped, and I was left here. Now, I’d love to hear them again. Sometimes I think I am hearing them, but they go again too quickly for me to tell if they were real or not.

I know I’m rambling. Look at me. I’ve become a raving lunatic. Sometimes I feel a little scared. That makes me think of yellow. It always seemed strange to me that such a bold, sunny colour would be used to describe someone who was scared. I wish I was yellow. Hell, I wish I was any colour. Any one at all. Even orange.

The room is getting brighter. I can’t deal with a brighter nothingness. Please, just give me some colour. Please. When I first came here, I thought the colours would follow. I didn’t realise I’d left them back there, in my old life. Why would they stay back there? I was a failure back then. My body was a failure. Not that I’m much better now. A disembodied voice, rambling about colours and regrets. I shouldn’t have any regrets, but here I am, full of them.

Maybe, if I sit here long enough, and think about colours, they’ll come back to me. Or maybe I’ll just die of boredom. Either would be a blessing. Perhaps I should ask Santa. Now, that would make a funny letter. Dear Santa, please could I have some colour, or the blessed relief of death. I don’t even know if it’s Christmas time or not. Part of me hopes he would bring me red. I love red. I never used to think about it much. You just don’t. Colours, in a world full of colour, just aren’t significant. It’s only when they’re gone, that you really realise how much you miss them.

I regret what I did now. At the time, I thought it was the only way. I keep telling myself to wake up. I don’t know what I’d be waking up to, but it really couldn’t be worse than this, could it?

Bleeding Rose

Bleeding Rose

Bleeding rose in bleeding hand,
The sharpest of thorns,
Inside my head.
Rich red velvet,
Drizzling, falling.
It can’t be caught,
Slips through the gap.
This bleeding rose,
Did nothing wrong.
Yet it bleeds..
The petals fall,
And pain’s removed,
For just a while,
As thorns left deep inside embed.
This bleeding rose in bleeding hand.

The Girl Dressed In Black

The Girl Dressed In Black

The girl dressed in black

With the bright, stripy socks.

The girl dressed in black

That everyone mocks.

The girl dressed in black,

With long, dark, wavy hair.

The girl dressed in black

With her feelings unspared.

The girl dressed in black,

Happy face painted on.

The girl dressed in black,

She won’t join in the throng.

The girl dressed in black,

Has gone far away.

The girl dressed in black,

She just could not stay.

The girl dressed in black

Slashed her wrists that day.

The girl dressed in black

Is as free as a bird. Gone and released,

The girl dressed in black.

And not nobody missed

The girl dressed in black,

With long, dark, wavy hair

And those bright, stripy socks…

Finally Free…

Finally Free..

A Poem In Darkness

Spaghetti junction is a maze of wire,

It’s out of the frying pan, into the fire.

Hustle and bustle, all fizzing a mass.

Copper wire, and metal sheets encased in plastic, looks so crass.

Waves and rays all run through lines,

Don’t stop and think, just move with the times.

So many thoughts: a million and one of them

Play on the mind — look! The crème de la crème.

So many airheads, and so many nerds,

So many people just follow the herd.

Some longed to be different, stood out from the crowd,

The fireworks sparkled; fore they gazed at death’s shroud;

And all of a sudden, the hustle and bustle,

The noise and the fizzing and all of the sparkle

Went out with the flick of a switch into black.

And looking ahead said “Goodbye” smiling back,

She knew straight away, there was no going back as the chains let her go

The powers coursed through her; she felt them flow.

As the spark left her body, she laughed inside in glee.

Now, at last, she was finally free…

Real Life Fantasy

Real life Fantasy

Real life fantasy nightmares and dreamscapes.

Swirling rainbow torrents

Luminous, pearlescent, neon. Fazes

The hazy mind. Torments

The lonely boy who stutters, shimmers, shakes

Abnormally bright.

Can’t communicate. A trapped bird, in flames,

Flapping, repeats in fright.

Fantasy scenes of ships, woods, towns, he makes

In his head. Alone.

Cut off from everyone, feels his heart break.

A multicoloured throne

Where his princess sits, but he’s just opaque.

Broken. Caught. Trapped. Pushed

Aside. Rainbow rusty nothingness. Quakes

As he sits, his minds crushed.



by Pastor Phylip Morgan

Here’s the blog post I wrote for my church on this week’s sermon 🙂

In his sermon titled “Chosen”, Pastor Phyl speaks of all the choices that we have to make in a day. Our life is full of choices. When we get up in the morning, we choose what we will wear. We decide whether to have breakfast or not. In our ever growing consumer world we have even more choices. In fact, various internet sources tell us that on average, we make 35,000 choices in a single day. 226.7 of those relate solely to food. A Prime Minister can make over 50 governing choices in a day.

So many choices. What to read, what to watch, what to buy. What we say, or don’t say. Whether we get married, when we get married. Whether we have kids, when we have them. What school we send them to. They all effect our lives. Every choice we make has an implication in our life, and we are the ones that have to live with these implications.

But, there are no accidents with God. He makes choices too, and even though they may not make sense to us, He knows what He’s doing, and He doesn’t make mistakes. Sometimes, we see that God has chosen to act through a certain person and we wonder why, when there are other ‘better’ people that He could have chosen, but it says in 1 Corinthians 1:27 “But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong” There are no accidents with God. He chooses to work through certain people. He chooses to use us. There are three things that God is looking for in our hearts and minds. These are not talent, nor intelligence, nor attractiveness.

In Luke 9:35 God says “This is my Son, whom I have chosen; listen to him”. God shows clearly here how he chooses to act through certain people. He may choose us for many things. We may be His chosen instrument, just as Saul was, in Acts 9:15: “But the Lord said to Ananias, ‘Go! This man is my chosen instrument to proclaim my name to the Gentiles and their kings and to the people of Israel. I will show him how much he must suffer for my name.” Saul wasn’t exactly a ‘good’ man, and yet God chose him. People may not have been able to understand it, but God knew what He was doing. We must not question God’s choices because He is all knowing and has reasons we know nothing about. He demands the glory.

Speaking from his chosen scripture for this sermon, Pastor Phyl explained that Samuel was sent by the Lord to anoint the one that He had chosen. While three sons of Jesse were brought before Samuel, none of them were chosen, but Samuel asked if Jesse had any other sons, and Jesse told him about David, who was out tending the sheep. Then he was brought before Samuel, who was told by the Lord to anoint him. God had chosen him.

Pastor Phyl went on to say that there are three qualities that we need, in order for us to be chosen too. These are qualities that we must hide in our hearts if we are to live a life that honours God.

The first is to put Him First in obedience. It can be difficult to be obedient, though. For example, Moses found himself caught between God and man, but he had to be obedient to God, in spite of the Israelites’ complaining, and he was then able to see God’s glory displayed. When the servants in John 2:5 tell Mary that there is no more wine left, she tells them “Whatever He says to you, do it”. She is telling them to be obedient, and when they are, they see the power of God when He turns the water into wine. Mary was obedient to God’s call, as were the servants in turn.

Secondly, we must put God First in loyalty. In our heart, we must show dedication and commitment to Him. We must serve out of passion and out of our hearts, giving Him everything we have. Farming is not glamorous work, it is hard labour, but David stuck to it, being loyal to his flock and obedient in staying with them. The big question is, where do we put our loyalties? The truth is that if we honour God in the small stuff, then He will honour us with the big stuff.

Thirdly, we must put God First in heart and motive. We must serve him willingly. God doesn’t want our abilities, He wants our availability. He wants our willingness. He wants us to respond to Him and to say yes. Having been anointed, David, a young shepherd boy responds. He is committed, dedicated and willing, trusting God with all he has.

In closing Pastor Phyl asked whether we would have a heart after God, being obedient, faithful and loyal to Him and Him alone.

Scriptures: 1 Corinthians 1:27, Ephesians 1:4. Luke 8:35, Acts 9:15, 1 Samuel 16:1–23, John 2:5

Taken from:

Chained Passions Free

Chained Passions Free

A Sonnet

From betwixt the bars, chained I stare; and see,

That freedom so scarcely seen snared, in fear.

Passion roaming from within starts to sear,

Bucking and running; jumps a fence to flee.

Heart pounding; head booming, shouting, “be free”

An eye for an eye, an ear for an ear,

What is there for me, but a single tear?

Heart slowing, head quiet, whispers, to me.

Crimson contentment, the passion flows free,

Released, removed, it flits far, high away

Out of me, externally, fleetingly.

Only seconds, within I’m free, just me.

And hidden I try keep the chains at bay

I know they’ll return again soon, for thee.



Numbness in overload
Is death on the line?
Heading overboard
towards the divine.

Thin red lines tell a life of sin
Where broken beings refrained announce
These patchwork carvings on pale skin,
To show that themselves, God has renounced.

A pointless existence desperately sought to keep
by the knife’s sharp edge.
This life is cheap!
I am, self renounced. This blood’s my pledge.

As I am refused
And oblivion calls,
Don’t think me abused.
It’s the angel that falls..

Across The Platforms

Across The Platforms

Part i

You sit there, watching, pretending that you’re not. She knows you can see her and smiles as she bends over her book. You feel your muscles tense as the strongest love you’ve ever known grips you. You look at her and wonder what she’s reading. A thriller? A romance? Maybe a comedy? Not that it matters. You’ll never find out.

They’ve told you she’s too good for you. They’ve told her too. You believe what they say. Still. Part of you hopes that one day, you’ll be the one with her. Not just having to gather snatched moments across the platforms. You look at her again. She looks at you and smiles. You sigh as you take in her cornflower blue eyes, and watch her long hair waving in the wind. You look down. You steal another glance at her, and watch as she sways her head from side to side as she reads. She’s always done this. It’s one of the things that first caught your attention. Other than her head, you wouldn’t know that she was living. She could be a statue. Almost. But there’s this liveliness to her, even when she’s that still which betrays her. Shows her passions better than any words could. You smile as you watch her.

You know that soon her train will come, and she’ll get on it, leaving only a cloud of dust, and the fading roar of the train that takes her to college in her wake. And when she leaves, bitterness engulfs you. You hate this world that won’t let you be with her. Even here, in NYC, you still can’t be together. You’re only young. So’s she. You can’t see the harm in your being together. You’re not hurting anyone. You watch her. And your soul aches for her, your body craving the touch of her soft skin, and the brush of her perfect lips on yours.

She knows you like her. You know she likes you too, but she’s scared of them. The state she got into last time they found her with someone like you, it’s hardly surprising. She didn’t come to the station for over a week. When she did, you saw faded bruises on her face and arms, and you saw her walk, not with her usual floaty ease, but with a jagged limp. You saw people staring at her, heard their whisperings, no one really knew what had happened of course. Only you. And that’s why you’ll never get her.

As you watch her, it’s like there’s only the two of you in the station. Yet, at the same time, you’re both always on the lookout for them. You’re also aware of the metal thief that takes her away from you. You hate that train as it carries her off and leaves you behind. No one else knows about you and her. They have their suspicions, sure, but they don’t really know. You don’t enlighten them. It’s not for them to know. It’s private – your domestic life. No one would approve if they found out. They’d tell them. That’s why you won’t say anything.

You’re too nice. You won’t risk her being hurt. So you sit there. Watching. Pretending not to see. And she gets onto the train. And she leaves, just like she did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, and just like she will tomorrow. She’ll come and sit on the same bench on the platform, and silently read as she waits for the train. And when she leaves, you’ll get up and leave and wait for tomorrow. Unless maybe….

Part ii

You sit there and watch, pretending that you’re not watching. She knows you can see her. She smiles at you. You look down. You can’t believe she’s being so open. You’re hardly breathing. You look around nervously, watching for any of them; for any need to go to her. To protect her. From them. They can hit you. You don’t care about that. Just as long as they don’t hurt her, because that would hurt you more. You can’t see anything, so you look down again. Leaf through your paper like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen.

Of course you’re not actually reading any of it. You’re thinking of her. Imagining her silky soft skin touching yours. Kissing her after a night out. Openly being in a relationship, not having to skulk in corners. Not having to pretend that you don’t even know the one person who is your soul mate. You imagine a time when you can walk her along the beach on a summer evening.

Suddenly, you feel really angry. They had no right to do this to you. They didn’t care about her happiness. When she got on the train yesterday, you saw her look back at you, and feel the same wrench as she left you, desolate, in a cloud of dust. You saw the sadness in her. They did that. They didn’t love her. They could never love her like you do.

In a flurry of windblown newspaper, you get up and waltz over to her. She looks up at you part scared, part happy. “I’ve been wishing you’d come over” she says, and you can tell by her voice that she means it.

You suddenly become overwhelmed by love. You pick her up in your arms and spin her around. In that instant, nothing matters. They aren’t there. You’re with her. Together. As two lovers ought to be. She’s laughing out loud. She has such a pretty laugh. You’ve always thought that, but now, when you’re close to her, it’s just so much prettier. At that moment, the world is right.

But nothing ever lasts does it? The train suddenly blows in, bringing with it, a jolt to reality. The shutters fall over her. She stops laughing, and tenses. You put her down. She gathers her things and you watch her murmur “I’m sorry” and run to the train.

You blink a tear back, as you wander back to your seat on the platform, carried by the cloud of dust from the disappearing train. You look around and see her, looking back at you through the dirty, rattling window. You look at her, and see that she is crying too. Before you can blink, the train has speeded out of the station, and there’s not a trace of her left. You leave the station and wait for tomorrow.



Demonic pleasure glimmered in his eyes. I’d only been there for about a minute. I knew in that second that something was going to happen. I just wasn’t sure what. Or how far he would actually go.

They always had their little games at the bus stop. I generally stayed quiet and didn’t draw attention to myself. The feel of the lumpy wall digging into my back was a familiar feeling. I flattened myself out against it. Hoping not to be noticed. It never worked, but I still did it. He always saw me, and always had some torture implement at the ready… Be it verbal or physical.

I got used to it. Learned to pretend that I didn’t hear, or that it didn’t hurt. But I did hear. And it did hurt.

That day started like any other. I got up and got dressed in my school uniform, (A welsh wool skirt, blue shirt, blue and green striped tie, blue school jumper with the school logo on, and my coat). My uniform was no different to anyone else’s. The school was the only supplier. I put my bag on my shoulder, and then left the house for the bus stop. I was happy that morning. Excited even. We’d just got a new computer and I was full of the joys of the Internet. That changed when I saw the bus stop.

As soon as I saw it, I knew that something was going to happen. I could see them all crowded together. As I walked down the road a feeling of dread spread through me as the gap between him and me got smaller. It was the same each day, this one being no different. It was only when I saw the look in his eyes. I knew then…

When I got to the bus stop, I saw that they were all there. Kelsey, Sarah, Gary, Casey, Daphne, Cam, Han and him. Will was there too, but wasn’t huddled with them. When I got there, I flattened myself out against the wall. Some of them glanced at me and murmured names and comments. He hadn’t seen me yet though.

They were always playing with lighters. I’d seen them before. I just didn’t look. The last thing I wanted was for them to have more ammunition. I saw through a gap in the huddle what they were doing. Lighters again. They were using a deodorant can, and a lighter to burn the wooden bench. The smell was a mixture of acrid deodorant, lighter fuel, and scorched wood. I could see a spreading black mark, as the bench got hotter. That day, for some reason I couldn’t look away.

They were all laughing and joking. Casey was the one burning the bench, he was concentrating but still talked with the others.

It wasn’t long before he found me. When he did, he looked at me for a minute, and then grabbed the deodorant can and lighter from Casey, and said “I think it’ll work better outside by penfold”. It really hurt hearing that name. I didn’t even know why he was calling me it at the time. He walked slowly and purposefully towards me.

I started walking backwards. I never turned my back on him as he was walking towards me. I was scared it would take too much time and that he’d catch up with me. I backed all the way across the road as he followed me. I came up against a wall, so I changed direction slightly and carried on backing away in circles as fast as I could, my bag banging against my leg as I went. I never seemed to get any real distance between us.

I was moving only on pure fear of being caught. I didn’t know what he was capable of. I felt sure at that moment that if he caught me, I wouldn’t be getting on the bus that morning.

There was no one around to stop him. It was a small village in the mountains. No one much came along the road at all, let alone that early in the morning. I was totally alone. The others in the bus stop just watched. Some may have made comments, but I couldn’t hear anything except my head shouting ‘Run!’

Finally, after what felt like forever, but was probably only a few minutes, someone called out “Leave her alone”, and he did. He crossed the road to the bus stop, and joined the others. I stayed on the other side of the road, leaning against the wall of the chapel.

Some of them said “Come on penfold. Come back over”, but, crying and shaking, I refused. They asked what was wrong, saying that it was only a joke. That was when I slipped up big time. “I’m scared of fire” I said. No one came over to me. Some were too scared; others just didn’t care or found it amusing. I tried to calm myself down. Tried… but failed as the images of myself on fire, being burnt as the simulated blowtorch raged on, and their faces laughing, flooded through my head.

A few minutes later, the bus came. The tears had dried up, and I got on and sat down. No one on there knew that anything had happened. I could hear him at the back of the bus as we drove to school. I just looked out of the window, and tried to imagine that I was a million miles away. My heart was still pounding, and the knot in my stomach continued to twist anxiously inside me. When we arrived at school, I was one of the last people off the bus. As he walked past me, he waved the lighter at me.

Later on that day, on the bus home, he asked if I’d told anyone. I said I hadn’t, and he said “Good. You’d better sleep with your eyes open from now on”.

It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. And it wasn’t the last but it was the most memorable. And the only time I let my guard slip and my fear show. That time he really had found my one true weakness.

I can still see the images as clear as day. The flames: the bench: their faces looking at me. And then there are his eyes. I’ll never forget that look… Ever.