Half-Heartedly

Hey there, it's Lydia here! This is a poem I wrote last week. I'm going to be posting my poetry on our blog more often, so keep checking our site! 

I don’t know its Location,

it should be on the left 

below my breast

in that general station.

Beneath cages of solid white

and fillings of pink 

wrapped in a cocoon-like state

where blue or maybe red pours, 

restlessly chasing each strip 

from finger to feet. 

But I cannot find its location. 

The doctor said all is well 

that aorta is functioning 

and left atrium is all in place, 

that your heart beats bebum-bebum

pushing golden life in regular trace. 

You’re pretty and young – 

I don’t understand 

How can you not find its Location? 

Ah, I think I remember now

as light poured onto my form

seen through a crack all broken and torn. 

A Greenhouse 

shimmering impenetrable grace

filled with sunflowers wet with dew

and bees floating from each face. 

There are splinters

shards all battered and blue

some mended some not 

crying when the cold wind blew. 

I felt that

fingers grazing that bloody wall

the bees stop, 

the sunflowers shudder, die and drop

and a stage comes into view.

a candle 

flickering 

flickering 

gone

I cannot find its Location 

Strangers

Hey guys, its Lydia here! I was trying to challenge myself to write a poem a week to keep up my creativity for university, but me being lazy didn't write anything last week. So now I must discipline myself, so I will be writing two poems this week to make up for last week. I hope you guys like this one.
I'm also posting my poems on my Tumblr account, search for Literature-addict and give me a follow.

Connection hums in the air,

Both hairs a flow of dark auburn,

And sapphire eyes stare in knowing recognition.

Identical voices, low and considering in passing questions,

Although polite, answering is plain and shallow.

An ignorant bond is known under crust,

Trying to push a paternal union.

But nothing can break an infinite void

Of infant screams unanswered, or grasping invisible palms –

With collection of missed calls, and promises unkept.

They felt the half-hearted appreciation, and struggling affection,

That showed in limp hugs and simple birthday cards -

That is never breathed, neither timeless bare concert seats, and the distant voice of bedtime stories.

Same hot blood revealed impersonal silences

Then only faded knowledge of each other.

Cherished love and kindness might be seen by acquaintances,

Yet time saw cold strangers.

She Will Always Remain

Hi guys, it's Lydia here. This is probably the latest post I've ever written, but I finally found some time to edit and share this poem. I wrote this a few months ago, in a pretty horrible time for me. But I found that writing about my anxiety and picturing it as a living breathing person helped me focus my mind, it gave me a sense of clarity. Obviously anxiety or any mental illness has no form or shape, but for each person I think the way they visualise and imagine their illness is different to each individual mind. But tell me what you think and if you feel comfortable enough share your experiences with how your or a loved ones mental illness effects your way of life.


It attacks in happy hours,
Laughter escaping open mouths.
In times not foreseen, when minds are running water.

She appears as mist, that thins through floorboards.
Or beady spiders twitching in bedroom corners.
The Lady of 'ifs' and 'buts', whose face appears despite comfort.
The Monstrous Mistress, white fingers shadowing true sight,
Watery grey eyes that loom in waking sleep.

In minds blank peace she calls -
Her cold caress breathing in ears,
You've forgotten something.
Her purple lips gleeful in anxious agony.
Lounging, watching as fingernails stab palms,
As fidgeting eyes scan around frightful,
Finding something, someone to stop her presumptions.

As clammy backs cool, the echoing thuds reside.
She crawls back through silky glass.
Into innocent eyes, down, down within
She sings I am you. I can never leave.

To the girls who feel like they aren't enough

There is a girl staring at me in the mirror.
Her face is cracked. Crooked.
I know not of her pale complexion, her awkward angles
Her limbs which tremble like a new born fawn, her limp hair.
But her glacier eyes are mine.

There is a girl staring at me in the mirror.
I beam at her. Yet she is wallpaper and her image does not waver,
'Who are you?' I begin to ask but her mouth moves along with mine
I falter.
'I am you' she whispers 'I am what you will become'

There is a girl staring at me in the mirror.
She is still. Quiet. Subdued.
I want to ask her, who has done this to you?
But an eerie smile is tugging on her lips
She has done this to herself.

There is a girl staring at me in the mirror.
With a gaunt frame and bloodied fingernails.
'You are enough' I tell her
The tendrils of her inky black hair hiss at me
'I will never be enough!'

There is a girl staring at me in the mirror.
She is beautiful and broken and she cannot see it,
She cannot see that flowers bloom when she smiles.
The sweetness that leeks from her every pour, the selflessness of her open outstretched palms
She does not see these things.

There is a girl staring at me in the mirror.
Her face is cracked. Crooked.
And I wonder when did we become so invested in reinventing ourselves
That we forgot who were along the way?
'You are enough' I tell her.

There is a girl staring at me in the mirror.
'You are enough!' I tell her.

- Shani

The Writers Journal

Hey guys, its Lydia here! I've just finished another creative writing practice piece in preparation for my exams. I hope you like it, leave me a comment of how you think it could be improved or just some of your opinions. I hope to be finishing and reviewing the book Ashes to Ashes soon, go and check it out once I've uploaded. 

Just before I shut my eyes, I write on the clean blank lines of a new entry. I describe and recount whatever comes to mind, all the thoughts and trepidations that pass, but never can be brave enough to utter. They are all bound and safe within the brown leather cover, hidden from all wandering eyes.

It’s like a friend that never leaves my room, or causes me pain. It keeps all secrets and memories, and with just a turn of the page I’m brought back to the thoughts I had ten years ago. 

A journal is a writer’s second conscious, the part of you that transfers what you see and know into words, building the bridge from your life to the limitless ends of fiction. Here, the language I use will never be shamed or critiqued; it can be in any form, whether that be prose or poetry. It is the foundation to any author’s career, the first test to see how well I can describe my day to no one, and the final prize to see if I can display my language to millions. 

When I’m finished, as my pen leaves the paper, and my thoughts have been channeled. Its like I’m looking at my own reflection, the verbs and nouns creating eyes, a nose and lips. The face speaks to me, forming the fears and worries that loop within mind, and with each word that expels its mouth I grow calmer and my body sinks into the warmth, ready for sleep. In my unconsciousness I no longer feel tense and twisted with negative thoughts of doubt. I’m free and soring through my dreams like an eagle.

When each day comes to an end, as the light disappears, I look forward to writing in my journal, as in every new entry I understand my mind better, I’m inches closer to discovering who I can become.

Valentino's (A Creative Writing Piece by Shani)

Hello, everyone! It's Shani and today I'm going to share with you a piece from my Creative Writing class. We were asked to create a piece of fiction based on an 'Unexpected Event'. I decided that I wanted to explore a normal setting - a coffee shop for example, and turn it into place where someone who appears to be normal, but is actually not normal whatsoever, frequents. I hope you all enjoy it!

Valentino's is always crowded in the afternoon. Filled with nervous students who gaze mindlessly at their textbooks. Brimming with the old and the young, both desperate for some bittersweet coffee to accompany them as they listen to the soft crooning of a new poet, who is attempting to pry their heart open with their words for the audience to witness. Valentino's is a breeding ground for those obsessed with all things literary. A beacon for artists, lost poets, and scatter-brained writers.

I stop by Valentino's at one o'clock everyday, no later or earlier, and sit in the same antique lime chair by the front window. I stay for exactly an hour. I sit at my table and watch the people who dart, stroll, and saunter past, all of them having some place to be. London is a city in constant motion, but here at Valentino's life slows and stops for a blissful hour of my day.

I wrench my gaze from the sea of faces which rush past the window, as a deep aroma of ginger, sugar, and coffee beans settles around me. My eyes latch onto a china cup, which is encrusted with little blue lilies around the rim, accompanied by a china saucer and two ginger bread biscuits. For a moment I am stunned, for though I heard footsteps approaching I did not think my beverage would be ready so soon. Yet, here it sits.

"Your latte, sir," A high pitched sultry voice declares from above me.

I hide my grimace as I turn to meet the eyes of my server. Candice. I knew it was her from the moment she opened her mouth, Candice has been my server every day for the past year, a flirtatious smile always ready on her thick cherry lips, a teasing look in her hazel eyes. I like to think that the only reason she continues to serve me is because of my consistent lunch breaks from work and her respective work shift. I like to think that, because the alternative option disinterests me and I can't bring myself to care. Funny, had it been a year ago I would have jumped for the chance to date someone like Candice.

"How are you today?" She says sweetly as she tucks a curl of blonde hair behind her ear, and gives me a teasing smile. "No sign of your mystery girl?"

A wave of annoyance washes over me.

"No, not yet." I clench my teeth to keep from hissing at her. "But she'll be here, she always is."

"You're such a stalker," Candice laughs innocently.

I flinch. I pick up my the hot cup of spicy liquid before me, hoping that my fingers aren't shaking, and let it scold my throat as I take a sip. I don't look at Candice. I can feel her frowning at me, her eyes on my face, searching to see what she has said wrong. What has caused this sudden tension between us. I don't look at her.

"E-enjoy your latte, sir." Candice's voice is strained. Hurt. Then her footsteps are clacking away and I am left alone.

I'm glad to be alone. I don't want to be seen talking to Candice. I know that there is a chance that she, my mystery girl as Candice has shamelessly branded her, may see. Anxiety seeps into my veins and I whip my head up to scour the room. Relief, such relief that she has not yet arrived and witnessed the encounter. I don't want her to get the wrong idea about Candice and I. She mustn't misunderstand. She is the only one.

Frustration coils in the pit of my stomach. Waiting for her is always the worst part of my day. Anticipation thrums inside me like an incessant tune, a question of will she stop by? There's a chance she may not. She doesn't visit Valentino's everyday, no, her movements are quite random - much to my annoyance.

The little tinkle of Valentino's front door has me looking up once more in hope. The chatter from various customers around me seems to cease, the high-pitched hiss of the coffee machine falls quietly into a small hum, and the poet who is obnoxiously reading Edgar Allan Poe's 'Annabel Lee' in the corner, dies out. There is such silence in my head.

 I see her it and it feels as if I'm seeing her for the first time all over again. Today, her short caramel hair is curled in small ringlets framing her delicate heart shaped face. Her thin lips which are usually free from colour are painted a brilliant red, fierce and inviting. Black eyeliner sweeps across her eyelids and her soft green eyes leap out at me from across the room. Beams of sunlight filter in from behind her as she steps inside, the rays making the golden flecks of her freckles visible on her translucent skin, as if someone has loaded a paintbrush with gold paint and flicked it across her face.

Normally, I am accustomed to her wearing long, tatty jumpers, with thick black leggings and winter boots. She doesn't seem to like the cold all that much, but today the sun has been kind to her. A vivid red summer dress adorns her small body, cascading to her knees in a river of ruffles. The neckline plunges just below her collar bones, exposing fragile pale skin and bones that stick out at beautiful awkward angles. Tiny black flowers are sewn along the bodice of the dress, black veins twisting down to the waist, and swirling out slightly at the skirt. Mahogany sandals adorn her pale feet, the laces of the sandals twisting up and around her dainty legs like snakes.

She scrunches her nose up for a moment, she smell of foamy milk, sugar, flour, coffee beans, and buttery pastries crowding in on her. Then finally, her face gives way to a radiant smile, red lips stretching across pale cheeks.

I marvel at her. My mystery girl. Her presence is a balm to my frazzled mind. I've been waiting for weeks for her to resurface, and the relief threatens to bubble over. All of the anger, the frustration, the mind-numbing worry that I felt whilst she was away is gone. My aches and pains soothed. Suddenly, the dull yellow wallpaper which I have been staring aimlessly at for weeks springs to life, the irritating noises of the baristas pottering around behind the counter turns into a gentle melody, and the crumpled flowers in their hanging baskets seem to revive themselves as she walks in. She is the bringer of new life, of harmony, and peace. A spring Goddess walking among us mere mortals.

She makes her way across the room. My chest automatically tightens, I can feel sweat coating my fingertips, and the relentless sound of thunder thumping in my ears. She won't sit at my table. She never does. That doesn't stop me from hoping that some day she will, that the gentle smile she gives out so freely to the members of staff, to the elderly couple sitting in the corner, to the gangly teenager attempting to read Carol Ann Duffy's 'Havisham' aloud, will some day be directed at me. It never is. Instead, she bypasses me completely, our skin nearly touching as she moves past me to sit at the opposite table.

Disappointment twists like a knife in my stomach, but it soon dwindles into acceptance. Understanding. It isn't her fault. She doesn't know that I lust after her like this, desperate for a single glance from her, a single smile. She doesn't know and she surely wouldn't understand if she did.

She orders the usual. Hot chocolate with marshmallows, no cream. Never mind that it's above twenty degrees outside. The world could be up in flames, and she would still be content to drink her hot chocolate. I hide my growing smile behind my cup, cautiously stealing glances at her when I believe she isn't looking. It takes a great amount of restraint not to outright stare at her. To stride over to her and demand to know where in God's name has she been for the past several weeks, and why didn't she inform that she would be away. I know I could never do such a thing. The poor girl wouldn't understand. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know that I wait for her here, at Valentino's each day, just hoping to catch a glimpse of her. She doesn't know that I watch her when she is here, watching the way she plays with her hair, wishing I was the one who was playing with it. She doesn't know that I study her movements, the little furrow of her eyebrows, the crinkle of her nose when she smells something mouthwatering, the frustrated frown when she rushes in from the rain. She doesn't know these things and I don't want her to know. She isn't ready to know.

Too soon, she has finished her drink and is placing her money down, overpaid tip no doubt, onto the table. I was wrong when I said waiting for her was the worst part of my day. This is. Watching her leave Valentino's and being unable to utter a single word to her. Over the span of the year, you would think that some progress would have been made, but...

She's walking past me again. Heading towards the exit. If I reached out my fingertips ever so slightly I could brush the flesh of her arm, feel her skin against mine. I could knock my cup off the table, let her pick it up as she passed, say thank you and then strike up a conversation. I could accidentally trip her over, move my leg out at the last minute, and then rush to her aid the moment she hits the ground. I could simply stop her and give her my phone number. Tell her that I think she's the most breath-taking woman on this planet, and that she should give me a call sometime. I do none of these things.

Instead, I watch her walk past me, sending smiles to those she passes and small waves to the members of staff, and then I watch her slip out of the door, and out of my life for another day.

Apart of me wants to roar. To scream and break things. To run after her like the desperate fool I am. I sit quietly in my chair and sip at my latte. The clock on the wall across the room chimes two o'clock and I gather my things. It's okay, I tell myself over and over again as I head towards the exit, she'll be here tomorrow.

In praise of... Loud eating

Hello everyone! It's Shani and today I'm sharing my recent creative homework. Our task was to turn a negative subject or annoyance into something positive. Now my piece isn't meant to be serious, in fact my aim was to keep it light and humourous! I hope you enjoy.

In praise of... Loud eating

I hate Sundays. My mother has always told me that I shouldn't use the word 'hate', that it's an awful word to use and I can't possibly dislike something that much. I do though. I loathe Sundays.

Sundays, in concept, are a day of rest. Of tranquillity. My Sundays, however, are absolute hell. The day consists of an extra two hours in bed, a gulp of scalding tea just before twelve o'clock, and then an hour to hastily get ready and head to my uncle's for Sunday roast.

As tradition in the Casey household my entire family meets once a week to catch up on current affairs - or in other words to gossip and gorge ourselves on my auntie Thelma's delectable food. In a way, it's like a miniature Christmas every week... Just without the presents and the drunk dancing which Christmas brings.

Now, I used to enjoy our family gatherings. Seeing my cousins was always a treat, despite the fact that I usually sat and conversed with the adults of the family. Being the only girl in the family, and the second youngest, my emotional maturity was a great deal more developed then my all male cousins. Though this never stopped me from laughing at their stupid jokes, or running after then as they played Chase.

Sundays used to be my favourite day of the entire week. I'd often wish for the week to hurry up, eagerly awaiting for the weekend.
That was until... The inccident. That fateful Sunday that changed everything. I was blissfully chewing on a Yorkshire Pudding when my cousin, Benjamin, commented: "Shani eats really loudly, doesn't she?"

I froze. My Yorkshire Pudding falling from my fingers. My cheeks flushed in embarrassment: they had discovered my secret. Eight pairs of eyes latched onto me. The mush of my Yorkshire Pudding lay still in my mouth, I did not dare move, nor breathe. My family stared at me. Waiting. Ever so slowly, I bit down on the remains of my Yorkshire Pudding, watching in horror as my family gasped around me.

"Nicola, did you know she was a loud eater?" My aunt enquired in a shrill voice  watching with wide eyes as my mother flushed in shame.

"It's like she's chewing nails!" My uncle said smugly as he sliced his chicken up.

The only word I can use to describe that situation is: mortification. Now I cannot attend our annual dinner without being given the 'side eye' or getting a full glare from my mother. They have now become the worst hours of my entire week.

It is no different this Sunday. I grace table alongside my two older brothers. We take our usual seats. Glasses of wine are poured and polite, though strained, conversation is made around the table.  Soon my aunt Thelma brings out our plates stock full of Turkey, greasy roast potatoes, the usual vegetables, pigs wrapped in blankets, and golden Yorkshire Puddings. All accompanied with thick, steaming gravy.

My family digs in around me. All gobbling down the haven in front of them. I sit still though. Not daring to move. I'm ravenous, desperate for some smooth Turkey, and the crunch of stuffing. So, with trembling fingers I grasp my cutlery, and slowly cut through my dinner. Everyone around the table is gorging on their own meal, they haven't noticed me yet, totally engrossed by the food in front of them. I strike my fork down and quickly pop a piece of chicken into my mouth. I bite down, bliss twisting around my tongue, when a gasp echoes from across the table and I lock eyes with my mother.

Please, her eyes plead, please try to eat quieter. I stare at her for a few moments, then without breaking eye contact, I pluck another piece of chicken into my mouth and gnash my teeth together. My mother winces at the sound.

I chomp my way through dinner, ignoring the horror struck faces around me, the side eye glares of my cousins, and my mother's beetroot face. I am hungry, and nothing, I mean nothing, gets in the way of me and my dinner when I'm hungry.

I realise that to many people my loud eating habits must be irritating. The munching, the gobbling, the loud clack as my teeth knock together, but I see no reason to be ashamed of my loud eating. At least with me as a guest my host will know how much I truly liked their meal. The enjoyment clear through the inhaling breaths, the speed in which I devour the supper. At least I am honest with my eating habits.