There was this bubbling tension in my chest. I mumbled apologies as I shuffled closer to the front. My mind numb with panic. I could smell the alcohol on the bar circulating the tightly enclosed space. I could feel the hot pressure building and the friction between bodies heating up the room. I could taste the paleness of my gum. My head was swirling with the lack of fluids and food. The smell of the obvious drug use somewhere in the vicinity made my stomach lurch forward and force a gag up my throat violently. I closed my eyes and swayed to the sound of drunkenness and excited chatter. I tried to focus on zoning out.

Everyone has their high. Alcoholics, romantics, adrenaline junkies, and actual junkies. I guess this is mine. And most people feel the downer after the high, the heartbreak or the hangover, I feel the downer before the high. The nervous buzz in my chest willing me to turn around and walk to the back of the club and just watch from where I could breathe clean air and lean against the back wall for support. That is what I had to endure before I could grasp the high.

My feet were aching. I had been standing in the same position for two hours and even the comfiest of shoes couldn’t keep my soles from screaming for a release of tension. A one leg balancing act, learned only a year before, can help for a while releasing the tension, one foot at a time and it gave me something else to focus on; not falling on the people around me.

The place is getting tighter. My airways were closing like the gaps between the people who surrounded me. I was squished against some speakers by ribs bruising and my knees scraping against the low stage. I tried to gasp for air and focusing on my breathing. In for four. Hold for four. Out for eight. A methodically calming exercise used almost daily for my anxiety-ridden mind. I had grown accustomed to the chest throb and agonisingly paralysing panic which can ripple through my body at any moment. But this time it was self-inflicted. I had chosen to make my way into this cesspit of trepidation within my mind. I placed myself in my worst nightmare.


For the same reason, the hopeless romantic falls too quickly in love again and again and again. For the same feeling, the addict gets when they go back for another hit. For the high. I wanted to escape from the congested people, feel the cold night air hit my lungs and the space of the darkened streets replace the bodies of the strangers around me. But the tightening feeling only meant one thing. I was going to get my next hit in only moments. I was going feel the punch in my chest the scream of my lungs and the burn of my skin as I let the intoxication push against every blood vessel until they explode from the blissed-out pleasure.

The room darkened. The drunken mumbles came to a standstill and I could hear the movement in front of me. I couldn’t seem to peel my eyes open just yet, preparing myself for the explosion of noise which will erupt at any moment. I smiled at the crackle of the speakers and I inhaled slowly. The abuse of my eardrums began in a clatter of crashing musical fire. The loud and unfathomable noise which was headache provokingly loud compared to the calming mumbles which had once filled my mind. But a headache was worth it, the entire basement moved as one, the crowd smashing up against each other in a messy unison to the beat of the screams coming from in front of me. I swayed with the crowd, feeling the thump of the bass replace the throbbing ache of panic in my chest. I could feel the much-needed thrill tingle through my skin, press against my forehead in the form of sweat and the tension floated from my mind like a balloon in the wind. I grinned. I sucked in the stench of stale smoke and sweat mixed with the concoction of alcohol. I pushed against the crowd my feet no longer feeling the strain for the unit block of fumbled bodies supported my tiny frame.

I was no longer thinking about my breathing. It just happened naturally now. My veins were buzzing from the music. I couldn’t think about anything, except how light I felt as if everything that was holding me so solidly to the wooden floor had evaporated into the musky air and decided to sit at the bar until I was done having my fun before it would begin niggling in my mind once again. A break from life, a bubble of gleaming light and the panting recital of lyrics. Time moves so quickly when you’re in that chest numbing state. I was being pinned against the speakers and the stage and my chest was constricted not from panic but from the full force of the crowd behind me. The music was thrumming through me like morphine making me unaware of the dark bruises staining my legs and the pain in my head from the pounding drum. My heart was now thudding to the beat of the bass instead of the beat on my apprehension.

I was dizzy.  But, the swirling buzz from the music loosened my tightened limbs and let me freely move around swaying my arms in the air ridiculously and sing from the top of my lungs every single lyric. My gum had a taste again and I muttered thanks to myself for staying brave when the panic took over. The dazzling lights from the stage illuminated the space around me and I could see my shaking hands pushed out in front of me swaying to the rhythm of the music and I remember how they seem to float with no effort at all. My body was suspended in the air with nothing but the drug to keep me afloat.

There was no downer. The high lasts for days from my self-induced terror attack. I can smile tragically at the solid bruising forming on my body from the night before. My bruises are the addict’s injections marks, the romantics love bites, the adrenaline junkies battle scars. There is no such thing as a harmless high, but mine is easier than most.


New Years

On the 30th of December, you are bombarded with the declarations of good health, of alcohol’s retirement, and tobacco’s surrender. But, you laugh at them and think of something deeper that you can home in all your attention and spindle into greatness in the new year. 2018. For as long as I can remember I have set myself the resolution of facing my fears. It has worked. From auditioning for the local musical to going to gigs on my own and getting my nose pierced to moving away from home. I don’t know if I’ve got much fear left in me, but it’s the feeling of determination. Because I would look back on a year and think ‘what did I really do?’ and I would remember how I went on a rollercoaster and travelled around the country and photographed my favourite band and worked in a proper theatre and wrote a play and a poem and how all those were once fears. I am scared of everything and it holds me back, pushing me into failure and darkness and holding me there until the opportunity is gone, but setting myself that one resolution makes me want to fight against it.

So this year I will not be eating healthier or running more or giving up smoking or wine. But I will face my fears…like last year and the year before that and I hope, with all my being, that it will end in greatness like this year and the last.

Two Thousand and Seventeen

Okay. 2017. You weren’t a great year…in music or politics or anything to be utterly honest. 2016 beat you in terms of tunes and the world seems to still be spiraling. But, if you look deep enough, there were a few good albums this year and I struggled to pick a top five so along with my usual round-up I’ve made a little playlist full of my favorite songs from 2017. Let’s call that it the ‘Honorable Mentions’ playlist. My top five are, like my 2016 pick, varied and messy, but they were the albums that sparkled through the bad year of music we have experienced.

5) Connect the Dots- Misterwives.

4) The Canyon- The Used.

3) HFK- Halsey.

2) Going Grey- The Front Bottoms.

1) Damn- Kendrick Lamar.

Catch my playlist here:



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: )

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.