Free Verse: Honourable Intentions

I have very little to say
That I haven’t already
Said before.

I cannot think straight.
Cannot focus
On anything
Besides the darkness.

I am lost. I am lost.

I am looking
For something
I do not know.

I tried to explain
Why I hated my job
And I couldn’t.

You see it’s not the job I hate.
I still have passion.
I just can’t access it.

It’s not the job I hate.
It is my life.

To hate the life
That one has created
For themselves.

Yet no. I didn’t create this life.
I merely followed the path
Which I was set upon.
I’m too far forward to go back.
But I no longer want to reach
The destination
Being signposted
Along the way.

I gain experience.
More and more every day.
But I am no further forwards.

How do you change a life;
That you are honour bound
To continue being a part of?

Is a life lead by honourable intention enough,
Or will obligation mar
The person I am to become,
Until the life I desire
Has slipped away forever.

The life I cannot even consider
While bound to the obligations
I have imposed upon myself
Through a sense of duty
Change me beyond the capacity
To ever be what I want.

Even if I don’t know what that is.

Free Verse: Have You Ever Been Lost?

Have you ever been lost?

I remember a time
With my parents
For the life of me,
I don’t remember when or where.

What I do remember
Is the moment I looked around
And realised
I was alone.

In the middle of a busy crowd
Of course
I wasn’t alone.
Yet the people
Were part of the problem
A busy crowd
Is no place for a lost child.

Too many people
By their journey
From point A
To point B

I panicked,
And the crowd absorbed me,
As fully as my fear.

Neck-snapping from side to side,
I looked to find them,
My parents,
But to my mind
They were gone.

Time passed,
But the dread did not,
It filled me,
Leaking from my eyes
Mixed with falling tears.

A child consumed,
Both physically and
Will shut down
Rooted to the ground,
Rationality removed
From thought, and action
Or lack thereof.


And then,
From in between shoulders,
I could see my Father.
His usually stoic face appeared,
Contorted with fear.
An expression which I was sure,
Was reflected
Upon my own face.

Relief upon my rescue.
Quelled any unease,
Which came when he spoke.

His words were stern,
“Don’t wander off”
But his eyes betrayed his tone.
Relief, the only thing
We both had come to know.

Safety brings comfort,
And once it is felt
Dread is quickly forgotten.

Free Verse: Why I Write

I write
For all the wrong reasons.

I have
So much within me
That I want to write,
But never feel able
To transfer to paper.

When I am at my best
I throw myself
Into all things
Which require it,
Leaving no time
For something
As trivial as writing.

When I’m busy
Writing feels
Like a selfish,
Waste of time.

I write
Mainly for myself,
And rarely share
What I create.

I think
It’s finally time
To admit to myself
Just how unhappy I am.

I am in a position
Where I feel powerless.
Like I’m living a life
That is not my own.
I am powerless
To change anything
Without ruining the lives
Of those around me.

I am
In a position
Where I must choose
Between my own personal happiness,
Or the happiness of my family.

Worst of all,
I don’t even know
If my family
Are truly happy.

They perpetuate
The existence
That they have lived
But for no reason
(That I can see)
Than the fact that
That is the way they have
Always done things.

But if the life I lead
Is not my own,
Then the decisions
That I may have
The power to make,
Are not just my decisions.

As long
As my family need me
To sacrifice
Myself for them,
I must do so,
Without hesitation.

For it is only when they
Are able to see the need
To free us all
From the situation
They hold us in,
That we will ever
Truly be free.

Without the blessing
And agreement
Of the family,
We can never move on
Or apart,
As the structure
Which we currently have
Will never return
Once abandoned.

And while we will no longer
Be bound by responsibility,
We will still remain
Bound by guilt.

Personal Blog: Over Reacting

The Following is an extract from my Personal Log:

Unknown Date (Between 06.09.14 – 12.04.15)

I overreact to things. I already knew this about myself. But…

For the first time in the longest time, I had a dream which I remember.

I received a gift from an old family friend, a calendar with precious pictures of us and then some pictures of her family. Each picture had a beautiful quote on it which related to the picture. I was so overwhelmed rather than just put it straight onto the wall, I took it to my mum’s house to show her it. She took it out of its bag and then for whatever reason removed the binder. I was so angry, I watched as all of the pages of the calendar fell to the floor and I couldn’t help but shout my frustrations. My mum, realising too late what the binder was for started crying as she had unintentionally upset me.

Even in my dream, I was devastated, I said quite calmly, 

“Actually it doesn’t matter, I can just use blue-tack to put it on the wall, it doesn’t change the beauty of the gift itself.”

I then hugged my mum and tried to reassure her that everything was okay.

Then. I woke up.

I felt guilty. I was devastated that, even in my dream, my actions resulted in my mum crying.

I overreact to things. I already knew this about myself. But for the first time, in the longest time, I realise that my behaviour does not just affect me, but those around me. When I become irritable, irrational, irate at all of the little things. When I demand and expect the world from myself.

Sonnet: A Mother

A daughter, sister, friend and a lover,

She was all of this before a mother.

From a child she became a woman grown

Her precious time was rarely spent alone.


Inherently passionate and caring,

Above all else she was kind and sharing,

Of her love, her time and all she could give,

Through the unfairly short time she would live.


But the time she had, she made the most of,

Sharing her time with her chosen truelove.

Then three new souls, created together,

Became her desire, her earthly tether.


Though she is gone and her presence we lack,

We love you mum, to the moon and back.

Sonnet: Hear the Silence

Sometimes the silence is too difficult

To listen to, to hear, to acknowledge

It can be filled, but it always returns

Every return harder to filter.


Each time that you are forced to acknowledge,

That the only voice, for that you listen,

Is the voice you must accept, you cannot

Hear again, as it is already gone.


Last words mouthed, but not spoken aloud

And then you were gone, though I sat with you

Surrounded in love as you said goodbye

To us, to life, to the world that you knew.


Rejoining your family, already

Departed. You will wait for us to come.

Sonnet: A Family in Need

I seem to sleep when I should be awake,

I dream rather than live reality.

Unconsciousness offers me amnesty,

From duty, and the decisions I make


One after another. I fear a break,

In our relationship. I disagree,

And so I must fight you to guarantee

My family get all that they can take.


As you research need, leave no stone unturned.

We ask only for that which we require,

We would never take that which is unearned.

But please make haste, for time builds only ire.


And if we feel that you are unconcerned,

Then be warned, for you shall face trial by fire.

Sonnet: Goodbye Mother

The difference between sickness and death,

The same as breathing and that final breath.

Remarkable in its finality,

Comfort and grief, a strange duality.


From my world of hurt, pain unlike any other

Repress the pain of losing a mother.

It cannot be done I have come to learn

To get by yourself you have to discern.


A new path. Unlocked, without her guidance,

Staying true to course, avoid subsidence.

Darkness awaits the hearts of those who fall

Those who obsess over that final call.


Goodbye is hard, but suffering harder,

Permission to pass, no need to martyr.

Flash Fiction: Coming Home

As part of my course, I have been developing my writing skills, in particular, we have been looking at short fiction. The following is my first attempt at crafting a piece of Horror flash-fiction capped at 500 words.

Coming Home by D.S.Coremans

Shock and surprise adorned the face of the dead man who lay in the hallway. His head lay inches from the door, the once cream carpet held his blood like a sponge, seeping under the doormat, impossible to walk around. Wide eyes and mouth open his surprise was understandable. The husband of the woman whose house he’d tried to rob was 87, I doubt he expected to be overpowered.

Yet another emotion was on his face, one that I couldn’t identify.

As I entered the living room the frail-looking woman sat where I’d left her only moments before. Her hands bloody they clung together, a cloth handkerchief clutched in between them. She didn’t notice me enter the room, her eyes were glazed, not with shock, but as if she were dreaming.

“When is your husband due back Mrs Allison?”

Her eyes met mine, but she stared right through me.

“Mrs Allison? You’re husband Geordie…” she cut me off, eyes suddenly focused and sharp.

“Only I call him that. Call him George.”

“I’m sorry Mrs Allison. When are you expecting George home?”

Her eyes darted to the mantle, then once again glazed over. Those bloodied hands wrung together like the hands of Lady Macbeth after the murder of Duncan.

“Shut that door son, your letting all the heat out.”

I did as she asked. As I turned to look at her, she once again faced the mantle. As I followed the gaze of her eyes, I saw the urn sitting in the centre. The inscription, embossed onto the surface was simple and bold ‘George Allison’.

Beside the urn, the mantle held photographs of the woman with her family, her husband and pictures of their son, the son who looked so similar to his mother.

“Mrs Allison, the man who broke into your house, did you recognise him?”

“I’ve never seen him in all my puff. He came barging in so he did, but Geordie got him so he did.” Her hands wrung faster, a silent tear trickled from the corner of her eye.

I returned to the hallway.

He lay there still, in a t-shirt, jeans and socks. One shoe already lay next to the shoe rack, the other he still wore.

The look on his face was one of surprise and shock…compared to all of the pictures of his smiling, happy face which adorned the walls, and on the mantle that his father’s ashes lay in, I finally recognised that emotion that I could not place. Sadness.

She stood behind me now.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

The blood on the knife she held was dry. Her arm swung in a wide arc, ferocity replacing frailty. I saw the fresh blood on the blade. Felt blood ooze into my shirt as the carpet underneath me had earlier filled with her son’s blood. The same carpet my knees now came to rest on.

Up ↑