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I’ve sat here, alone and quiet, staring at this blank piece of paper for over an hour and desperately wanting to find the words i need to say. But nothing…..nothing comes and i am so frustrated because i need to write to maintain my sanity. Maybe i’m greedy to want so many words to fall from my lips. I should be satisfied with my lot, not searching for something that may never be mine. 


I cannot write about how i feel today although i need to….writing is such a release, but today my emotional channels are blocked and i’m staring at his page thinking “where the hell do i start?”. Usually words trip off my tongue so easily and fluently but today, my canvas remains blank. But suddenly, i hear a voice booming out, saying “What about me? Am i not worth the paper i am written on?”, and yet i so want to express myself, instead of which this load of garbage fell out of my gaping mouth and splashed onto this page. 


I am a poem; vague, curious words

Creeping as if a green, woolly caterpillar

Across a blank, ink-spotted crisp page

Of the small, dog-eared notebook

On which my scrawled peculiar words

Fall like muddied drops of rain


With a particular, unconventional, rhythmic flow

And apt and occasional, original metaphors

My vital statistics consist of just a few

Six-line stanzas with varying quantities of words

Not formed of anything wonderful

Or of adventurous, challenging notions


I shall on this occasion, remain terse and curt

Not consisting of too much, neither of too little

I have no aspirations to be an eminent novel

With which one could occupy much of the day

And the author, pedalling, desiring to earn

A pretty penny or two, or a pound or a dollar.


See, i told you i was a waste of space because that is how i feel today. I am tired. Why, so early?iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. Whoops, sorry, i nodded off there with my finger still attached on to the letter ‘i’ as you can see!  I’ve been up since 3am this morning. That’s why i keep crashing out and my eyelids are heavy, inviting sleep to come into my world. But i plead with my mind, “If i give in to this approaching slumber, please promise me no nightmares, no night-terrors, no flashbacks of my abuse” otherwise i will refuse to give in and then force myself to stay awake. But then i realize that i don’t know anymore, whether the nightmare is worse when i sleep or is the nightmare, the waking up from the sleep to find myself thrust into this tortuous life, worse still? Either way, i am currently here and just have to get on and deal with it best i can. But i am only here, not from my own choosing, but by the care i received most ungratefully in intensive care a week or so ago after trying end this palty, sullen life of mine.

Author: Ellie Thompson

Writing my memoirs, musings, a little fiction and a lot of poetry as a way of exploring and making the most of my life ... ... Having had a break from writing my blog for more than three years, I decided to return to write my memoirs, some day-to-day observations, views and feelings. My passion is non-fiction poetry. I have a disability and use an electric powerchair called Alfie and let nothing get in the way of living life to the full. I believe that you can never do a kindness too soon and should give credit where credit is due. A smile or a kind word could make the difference between a good or bad day for a person - we never know what's going on for another soul. Those little things, perhaps, practised daily like a mantra, could mean so much to someone else. Thank you for visiting my blog and reading a little more about me. Please, make yourself at home here. You are very welcome. Ellie x 😊

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