I Wanna Talk About Time & Words.

Word’s terrify me. They grip onto me so tightly and they never let go. They burrow themselves inside my mind and make me sob. I can’t get rid of the words. That’s what writer’s block feels like; I guess. I had an issue there with grammar did the block belong to the writer? I feel like I belong to it sometimes. I haven’t written poetry in a while only because I can only be a poet when the block has me. It’s cathartic while the words latch onto my brain and refuse to settle into the crisp white paper or onto the blank screen. I have an old one though that I will share with you after this. A poem about a graveyard for a friend of a friend. A poem I forgot about until a few days ago.

Let’s talk time for a moment. How it hangs from branches in the sky and puddles at your feet. How sometimes it rains and pours and how sometimes it dries out your lungs. I want to forget time exists for a moment. But time is the moment I seek and everything adds up to the minutes and seconds it takes for you to close your eyes and fall asleep.

Maybe I am being idiotic when I feel like time holds me back, but every day would feel incomplete if time didn’t start over again. I hate the end of days and moments and trips and…

I haven’t been writing poetry. I have gotten over the writer’s block which was tying me to the confinements of rhymes and metaphors. But with untying those tight knots I discovered what it felt like to have time move quickly again. A month without writing anything but poetry. A month without any progress on any of my work. A month of freedom? Maybe. Nothing moved and neither did I.

I forgot about this blog because I was writing about things that seemed to be more important. A friend of mine started writing and I remembered it had been a while. I am sorry for the nothingness.




Hey, dudes, sorry for the radio silence the last few days I’ve been focusing on building some more of my photography portfolio which you guys can check out in the Facebook link below. Poems are coming soon since everyone seems to like hearing them. But for now, I wanna give you a small music update.

Last year was outstanding for new albums and music. We had new Kanye and Beyonce content in the urban world. Lady Gaga came back with a new sound in the form of ‘Joanne’. New Frank Iero, Taking Back Sunday and Against Me, album’s gracing our ears. The Weekend even decided to drop by and treat us some more. But one thing that did surprise us all was the reappearance of Electric Century with ‘For The Night To Control’.

A smooth almost electronic indie vibe is set throughout the album and it’s honestly kind of mesmerising. Now, why am I bringing up this album again when I already reviewed it last year? Well, for the unlucky few who didn’t get a version of it last time will get another chance. They have revamped the album and are bringing it out for everyone to enjoy not just us few UK Kerrang readers.

Now, if you haven’t heard of Electric Century then get ready to hear your new favourite band. I’ll leave some links below to their music you can listen to for free. They were kind enough to give away the album last year and that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t support them this time around.

To give you a short quote from my review last year:

‘’For The Night To Control’ is out and it doesn’t get any better than this people. Mikey Way and David Debiak have created this wonderful project called ‘Electric Century’ and it’s blowing our minds. Get yourself some headphones and a spare hour for this one. It is incredibly immersive and outstandingly mesmerising. The vocals are softly dragging you through this beautiful masterpiece and while I can’t yet differentiate between many songs it is an album you can lose yourself in.’

Please pre-order this album and give it a listen. I promise you won’t regret it. Till next time…


( Pre-order and listen here: http://www.electriccentury.com )

Another Sleepless Night

Blue light streams through the gap between the wooden sill and the blind

It settles onto the yellow blanket and shimmers its daylight dust

My eyes ache and itch at the feeling of the sleepless kind

And the morning breaks into a new and shatters the nighttime rust


Sleep is so far away now, but it has never seemed so close

A flicker of dreaming is enough to switch my brain to standby

Outside the air warms up, boiled as the sun rose

The noises, the birds, and the wind are mesmerising me as I lie


Utterly still waiting for something to occur suddenly

but nothing ever does and everything is slowing as the day begins

My eyes shutter closed and mind stutters into silence solemnly

The light purges the air of everything, of sadness of sins


The skull  shields my brain from the innocence of the light

it lets it continue its melancholy existence

As the moon slips undercover and sun emerges into sight

The world thanks the sun for its beauty and light; for its persistence.

Dear Reader


My name is Lottie and I am a writer.

The ticking of my mind never stills at it’s overlooking presence. It looms around my every movement begging me to push out the mumbling in my brain. To spill onto a blank canvas and to release the tension from within. Bubbferociouslyously on the page it engraves itself onto the paper and sparks brightly until the light dies and so does the thought. Cathartic. Writing to me is my therapy. I feel a spark of creativity within me and through that I feel emotions. Melancholy whims. Ecstatic frustrations. Burrowing in my mind reminding me to deal with the build up of emotion soon.

An artist floats above the rest of society, not in a pretentious or powerful way, but so they can breathe in the fresh scent of human emotion. To write you must expierence. And to be a good writer you must relate in some way to the human soul. You need to teach, not just entertain, you need spark motivation, not just provoke feeling, you need to fufill the dreams within your mind, not just please the reader. A writers job is to create something other worldly, while living the same life as everyone else.

Writing is as easy as it seems. Spill my soul and hope it sounds pretty and sometimes it does and sometimes it sounds like I did exactly that. The craft of writing hasn’t really changed in my mind over the past months, but only that it seems to much more accessible in my brain.

Back in August, when the summer air was simmering into the autumn wind, I only thought of my writing as within myself. I continued bubble. I would write my short stories. My short fictional stories. Character as far away from my own life as I could get. But now, as the icy air corrupts my lungs and the leaves are dying, I can feel myself bubble with new potential I never knew resided within me. I don’t have to write my little short stories anymore. I can write a poem, or script or maybe even about my own life. I can make the most boring of memories beautiful. I used to have no self confidence in my far away words and now I would like to pick them apart and appreciate their inner beauty. Redraft.

I look to write something that changes a life. The way that book changed mine, or that album, or that comic, or that person. Not in the biggest of ways, but I want to make someone forget their own troubles for a moment, I wanna inspire the young, comfort the old, make the sad laugh, make the happy contemplate, make my own mind twist in new ways. I want to puncture the stereotypes and help fill the new world with lively air that spurs a generation.

That is what literature must do. It must educate the lost. Guide the hopeless. Move the unemotional. It must push agaisnt everything we ever new, but remind us of home. It must tell us of the lives past are own, of the troubles of those on the other side of the world and the hidden secrets of our next door neighbours.

Writing in my mind was once unreachable. Today it is a tumbling need. Maybe we can all do it.