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.


Lazy Sunday’s

Curled into the crack on your cheek

Muffled articulation

Your smile oblique

Freckles like a star formation

Paint me blueberry

Graffiti my tongue

Skin fragmentary

The smell of you sedates my lungs.

A calming gale

Shallow wave

Our skins mix into pale

Your sour tasting aftershave

Let me wake up in your warmth

Sleep the day away

Curl your arm around my waist

Our bodies a bouquet

Rose Petals

🥀 Stuff my lungs with rose petals 

Let me suffocate on their scent

I cry their perfume

Melt them down to greying cement 

Let them overgrow and twist 

Around my aching heart

Cut off all circulation 

Smother me in their art 

The vines will plague my soul

Petals clogging my airways

Breathing is impossible 

Hunting for the suns rays

Let the roses grow and flourish 

In my rotting rib cage 

My body will home the flowers

Sugar scented sage 🥀

Let’s Talk Music!

Dear Reader,

Let’s talk about music. About albums, gigs, bands and everything in between. I am a gig photographer as you have probably seen from my small collection of photographs and so I get to write about music as well.

I want this to be transferrable from the magazine to this little blog. So let me force feed you my favourite releases from the week, month and year. Maybe even a couple of throwbacks to old albums you may have missed.

You came for the rambly poetry? Well, please, stay for my rants on music because they may lead you to your new favourite band.

Short and sweet for now, but tomorrow you have a rant heading your way…


I Want To Be Missed

I want to be missed

When I’m not near

But, forgotten when I’m kissed


Your stomach should twist

With longing and fear

I want to be missed


I have to subsist

As your souvenir

Forgotten when I’m kissed


Please see me through the mist

of distance my dear

I want to be missed


I ought to be dismissed

Demand for me to disappear

Forgotten when I’m kissed


Need me, I insist

But only when my place is clear

Forget me once we’ve kissed

I just want to be missed.

A Poem for Your Troubles

You lived your little life in the clouds
While I drowned in oceans of sorrow
You shine so brightly in all the crowds 
I couldn’t see another tomorrow

You compared me to Paris in the spring 
But you’d never been to Paris before
I made you promise never to sing
But all you could ever do was adore

me. And cherish all my hideous flaws 
While I could only critique your fault.
You’d wait forever for my heart to thaw
But I never told you it was basalt

I drowned you and you kept me afloat 
But I never loved you so I left you this note.

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.