draftauthor

[draftauthor]

An original poem: ‘Now Love Me.”

- inspired by a character from one of my current writing projects; Roman Hollows, an enigmatic and obsessive law student — and his muse, his sole reason for living.

[draftauthor]

O Golden Star ✨

[draftauthor]

“No Rest For The Wicked” ~ a poem 🍂

[draftauthor]

"Death or a Breakup... You Decide" - a poem

[draftauthor]

"Polite Sadness" - a poem

[draftauthor]

Over My Dead Body - Prologue

God… please don’t let this be where I die.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. I mean, I literally wasn’t supposed to be near this part of town, but as I stared at the floor, thinking to myself, my feet took charge and brought me to a shelter. Admittedly, it looked like the type of shelter where runt dogs were kept to either be illegally put down or forced into fighting circles, and it turns out that I wasn’t far off. 

I felt another strike across my stomach, slashing so hard against my skin that it felt as though my intestines were spilling out of the bruised flesh. The shouting around us was beginning to become muffled. Angry faces stared at me, eyes wide, mouths open as they screamed, spitting saliva at the floor as they degraded me. Pulling my hands up close to my face again to protect myself, I gasped for air when a closed and tense fist collided with my diaphragm. 

I dropped to my knees, choking on my own blood. I got dragged back to my feet by someone behind me and they held me against their body. I could hear them muttering some words of encouragement, but I couldn’t focus on those words. I had to focus on something else. I had to find a way out of here before she killed me. Although, for whatever reason or whatever her motive is, I probably deserve it. I deserve to be beaten to a pulp, tortured with hot water and bath salts, and then I deserve to rot and die in prison. 

Tunnelling my vision away from the pool of my blood on the floor, I saw a black smudge plastered across the surface of my opponent's back. Or is it a squiggle? Gosh, I couldn’t tell. Not with blood, sweat, and tears blurring my vision. All I could make out was a tanned and orange glow that hugged her silhouette. Maybe it was a worm. Who in their right mind would get a worm tattooed on their back? 

Everyone was a blur. Everyone’s voices were overpowered by my own slow and heavy breathing. I was struggling. 

I unfocused my attention onto her marking and flicked to her smile. A sinister smile. Perfect teeth, blinding, even covered in her own blood that spilt from her nose. She had a smile that made you question how many men she had killed, but her eyes told you that she had already lost count. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing her own blood that pooled out of her knuckles and across the sharp curve of her jaw. She wiped her nose and stared at me, smiling. I had seen that smile a thousand times before, in the same situation, right before the same outcome. 

She really is going to kill me. 

“My Lord God, even now I accept at thy hands cheerfully and willingly, with all its anxieties, pains and sufferings, whatever death it shall please thee to be mine,” I murmured to myself before I gulped down another ball of blood and saliva. She threw another right hook against my jaw and her force brought up the blood I had just swallowed and it spewed from my mouth as I tumbled. I swung back. I had to. She was going to kill me. But I missed it. Shit, I missed. 

Shaking, I took a step back and raised my hands again. Someone pulled me back and started murmuring to me. Something along the lines of ‘get back out there,’ but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. 

“Come on!” I heard her shout, spitting the blood from her mouth and dropping her shoulders from their high and tense position. Her voice was far too familiar. Raw with anger yet too feminine to sound like she could be a threat. Her voice deceived her. Her appearance lied to us all. 

Sweat dripped down her body and clumped her short black hair against her forehead and neck. She breathed out as she let out a low giggle and relaxed her body, no longer in defence. She spun on the spot, examining the crowd as she did. I looked too, everyone was still as giddy as they were when she landed the first punch. 

God… please don’t let me die! 

She slowly turned around and looked at me as if she heard my silent plea for saviour. Her eyes were dark with rage, taunting me. Did my cry for help anger her more? What did I do to deserve this? God --

“PLEASE!” I screamed, blood dripping from my mouth. She was proud. Everyone was happy. I was dying… people were watching me die, and they were thriving. Should I die? One more punch and I would be dead. Why was she putting it off? Just kill me, damn it. 

She raised her arms again in their tense position, her knuckles bleeding and her arms splattered with my blood. I looked back at her slightly cracked lips. I ignored the cut and focused on the smile. I could see the kindness that it once portrayed, the kindness that it once showed me, but as she giggled again and stepped forward, I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to watch her smile turn into bared teeth as she screamed.

She was kind.

[draftauthor]

Whiskey and Tea

(a poem about Neil Perry from Dead Poets Society)