Stress – Just a Thought

‘Stress is the body’s reaction to any change that requires an adjustment or response.’

I’m a natural born stresser, it annoys and frustrates me in unequal measures, but it’s what I do. I’m often told not to stress so much, but the more I try to not, the more stressed I actually become.  \It’s a contradiction almost that the act of trying to destress causes an exponentially greater amount of tension. Sometimes I wonder if that’s because my body is so used to the state that it actually struggles to cope without it.

Stress appears to be such a modern day illness or affliction, it’s such a prominent part of our lives whether intended or not. I often reflect and wonder if we are all a little addicted to it? Not in a narcissistic or masochistic way, but in the sense that feeling stress reminds us that in an inhuman world, we are in fact human. We do feel, can feel, we need a release and an outlet that maybe otherwise we just wouldn’t find.

Stress is almost (I think) the acceptable face of worry, anger, turmoil and the sudden snap we all eventually have.

Stress; a catch many term that increasingly seems to rule, the new sovereign of the future world that we all walk towards with eager trepidation.

Good old friend stress.




The Scar and the Knife

Needle and Thread

These are the scars and I am the knife
Injuries sell taught and lives undone
A lie to the world to damn the own soul
White wash these truths as they cannot be sold

These are the bruises and I am the harm
Circling outwards from a wound deep inside
The pain never seen when it’s hidden in veils
Dress up these eyesores with pictures of happy tales

These are the scratches and I am the claws
A nail left in the marking to fester and soil
An internal poison from a chalice of pretence
Is it better to live in shadows than to sit on this fence?

These are the bites and I am the fangs
A will for set blood let that cannot be told
This covering of flowers that die upon touch
Others turn a shamed cheek as the truth is too much

These are the wounds and I am the tear
Deep set and seeping this a mere sacrifice
The way to escape the horrors played out in the mind
Running away from heaven as this hell is just as kind

These are the scars and I am the knife
Set to unpick the stitches so the threads unwind
A shell of a being with a false life lived outside
This internal torture allowed to thrive when denied

Jabs 5/2/12

I was looking through my old work today, just out of curiosity. I find a lot of what I have written in dark and unhappy, but that doesn’t make me feel rueful, merely accepting and grateful for expression.

Little Things

I’m still trying to write, trying. So today I thought I’d share something a little insightful about myself. Sharing about the self is the most difficult thing to do as it means laying yourself vulnerable to outside intrusion and judgement. 


Nature, or rather being out in nature, always makes me feel a little brighter inside. There is something about watching ducks gliding across a lake, sparrows squabbling on a bird feeder, and geese tending their young that just fills my being with a swarming of warmth and joy.

This isn’t a sudden found realisation born from searching for light in the cloudiness, I have always felt like this. Even when times are dreary and heaviness hangs in my chest like lead laden concrete, watching nature’s wonders always brings sunshine. 

I wish I could really explain it, or maybe actually it is better that I cannot. I do believe that somethings just are and don’t need to be analysed and dissected into tiny pieces. This is the one part of my psyche that I have never questioned, doubted or sought to find a reason as to why. 

So I am looking forward to spring, and the beginning of new journeys and especially watching last years chicks starting on with their own adult lives.

I am looking forward to the little things, and most importantly I am looking forward.




My Gran

My Gran died when I was 13, I remember it vividly but with also with that tint of preconception that showers down on to all thing that have long since happened.

There are three things from her time in hospital, death and funeral most lucidly that I remember. Her eyes the last time I saw her, and the want within them to be freed from the prison the stroke and two heart attacks had put her in. Watching myself sleep in bed at the exact time she died, and the poem she had chosen to be read at her funeral.

The first and second things on that list I can’t share, they are my own snapshots and memories to process, the third I want to.

The poem is called ‘If I Should Go’ by Joyce Grenfell

If I Should Go – Joyce Grenfell

If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone
Nor when I’m gone speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves that I have known
Weep if you must
Parting is hell
But life goes on
So sing as well.

I’m not sure why this popped into my head today, but as I was unsuccessful in finding my own words today, I chose to share those from a time that meant so much, and affected me so deeply.




16th August 2014

This was the date of my last post, but it truth it was January the 30th when I really stopped blogging. Something in me changed, snapped I suppose, and the thing I loved the most in the world became marred and dirty.

Writing has become like a scar with knotted fibres that can’t be undone. Words seem lost and the will I have, the need and the desire are all hindered by a mind that has become stymied and polluted in memory.

I have lost the part of me that drove my dreams and I miss it so desperately that I would mourn it if I knew how to. Instead I rue missed chances and scratch for thoughts and sentences that were once so easy and flowed in floods across my notebook pages.

But (and there is always a but), I want to believe I can regain them, not for anyone else but myself. To help close the void, stir up the inertia and to fuel the fire to warm the darkness. Most of all because I miss it.

I’m not sure if this is the start of anything, but the important thing is I am trying. If you don’t try then there can be no spark of hope. Without a spark of hope there is no belief. Without belief there is no sense in trying.

Jabs 7.1.16


Who Can Me?


Who can love me?
Bitter, sour heart that beats
Who can need me?
Vicious, cruel soul that bleeds
Who can save me?
Fractured, poisoned life of weeds
Who can see me?
Visible, hidden emotion that pleads

Can I love me?
Can I need me?
Can I save me?
When I am blind to see

Who can help me?
Broken, repaired mind of cracks
Who can relieve me?
Beating, tapping belief that is strained
Who can repair me?
Locked, unsecured eyes that weep
Who can hear me?
Muted, loud essence clamouring still

Can I help me?
Can I relieve me?
Can I repair me?
When I can’t hear myself?

Who can me?

Jade Smith

How And Why


How and why we do these things
To gain truth within all the lies
Weaving wired webs of deceit within conceit
Blurring the line between where and why
The little things that mean so much
Within the massive outcomes disregarded to fall
Fixating on the itch rather than the rotted twitch
Then to wonder why we reach nowhere at all

How and why we do these things
To perpetuate lies to envelope the truth
Knitting looms of answers clouded in hate
Blinding the barrier between the will and the why
The tiny things that awe and inspire
And the huge implosions that shatter with no dent
Blinkered by the it inside the backward thing
To then ponder why we achieved nothing at all