Dear Stranger, Smile.

Dear Stranger,

I’m writing to thank you.

You wouldn’t believe the amount of times I have re-written that sentence. An opening sentence is similar to a first impression. And don’t be mistaken an impression is important. An impression, it can stay with you for life. It’s an imprint in your mind. And you were an imprint in mine.

Dear stranger, you saved me. You saved me from the prison I called my mind and from feeling so secluded and so alone at that time. Depression. Depression, it can eat away at you sometimes. Sometimes you can only hear a voice telling you what’s wrong with your life. It’s a pressure, a constant pressure in your head. Almost convincing you you’d be better off…

A word we don’t say as its too harsh and too real. A word I thought of for many days before absence became real.

Dear stranger, I was anxious. Sweaty palms and naked arms. Scared to sleep and scared to dream. Scared of what after life may be. What may become of me?

I didn’t leave the house you know. For several months, a few years ago. You see there’s things you know and there’s things you don’t. They’re unknown. But it’s the known unknowns that convince anxiety and convince depression into making you believe things that no sane person would give any attention.

Am I not sane for feeling this way?

Dear stranger, these questions I pose are all rhetorical and you may be wondering why I’m spewing my story to someone who’s seen nothing of my adventure.

Dear stranger, yes that was my story. My story in which you changed. You made my life turn from a haze into a beautifully crafted maze. Although I do not know the answers or which path to take. You made me learn to enjoy the journey and live with mistakes.

If you cast your mind back to a few years ago. Remember I said I didn’t leave my home. Well one day during that time is the same day I met you. I had to leave my safe place which is something I’d never do. You saw me in my worst state. Frightened and alone. Panicking, panicking, panicking until I had no control. Underground at Waterloo is a place I don’t know.

You smiled. Starting as sympathetic smile. It was light and pure and true. The only way I can explain it was almost like home was standing right in front of you. Your lips curved upwards, your eyes slight and small. It was infectious, if you didn’t smile back you couldn’t be human at all. That smile alone made my day and even if you carried on walking that first impression will stay. At that moment in time, I knew the scary life I was caged in wasn’t reflected in you. You stayed, sat with me and talked for a while. You made me laugh and that infection grew wild. We didn’t discuss the panic attack but I knew you knew. That day you put my mind at ease and that’s why I’m thanking you.

Dear stranger, if there were more people like you in this world, what a world it would be. You made me realise that, anxiety and depression are just thieves.

You were kind and you were sweet.

You were all I could ask a human to be.


My Hobby.

A single stare can turn into a whole other universe.


Any normal person would see a man playing an instrument. That’s not what I saw. Every key he played touched my soul and although he was just doing it for fun, it made me happy.


A passion is something most people live for and a talent is what he possesses. Each touch felt in connection to my body.

As he caressed the keys they spoke to me and if I closed my eyes for a split second it felt like home.

It felt like I was exactly where I should be at that moment in time.

If you ever get to experience Déjà vu I believe it means you’re on the right path in life. This is your journey and is what your God intended. To be in the present moment. I’m so content. I am so content.

Such manly hands moving in time with my spirit. I’ve never experienced a soul such as he. So intelligent, I’m in awe. He not only played my mind, he played something deeper within. With each note an uncontrollable desire overcame me. Getting stronger and stronger.


To him, he was just playing an instrument. To any other person, he was just playing an instrument. To me it was more. To me it was more than just the physical.


and that was my first encounter with something. No.

Someone so special. 

Breaking the Perceptions of Poetry.

I get asked all the time why did you start a blog? What is it about? What’s its purpose?

Funnily enough its something employers like to hear about. Not because blogs are essential for employment opportunities but because it’s a hobby of mine. It’s something I do in my spare time. Similar to watching football, playing basketball, playing the piano, even that daily dose of social media. Each individual has something they enjoy. A hobby. And even though my blog is just that. I also enjoy communicating.

Speaking and voicing my opinion on what I believe current issues are.

Speaking and voicing my opinion on things I think need to be addressed.

Speaking and voicing.

Letting out the thousands of thoughts that consume my brain daily. If you’re a thinker like me the amount of times a thought enters your brain are not measurable and I’m a firm believer in things building up. So why not write about it. Why not speak on things that make you happy things that make you sad. Elements that have affected you or your loved ones. If not it will build. If not those voices will build until you can no longer hear peace.

I am practising peace and by clearing these thoughts allows room for nothingness. I want to be present and absorb my surrounding for our time on earth is limited. So why have a brain that is overflowing with thoughts when you can voice them. Share them and share experiences. Someone can learn from your mistakes, I learn every day.

In answer to your question my blog is about breaking the perceptions of poetry. You are taught in school that poetry must rhyme and if your shoes don’t rhyme with whose and amuse, you lose. Your words don’t quite fit that standard of what a poem is but why be so subjective. Who made the rules. In my opinion poetry is a feeling, it a form of art. It’s your hearts voice that can be interpreted by many in different ways and unfortunately this heart can’t be tamed. I don’t apologise for my stanza’s not being in sync or the chorus not rhyming to your exact liking. My poetry is me, your poetry can be what you chose it to be. No limits, not silenced, not compared.

Final Year Freak Out!


I scream because sometimes my brain feels as though it’s is about to implode. An explosion that divides into tiny minuscules gathering as residue of a brain that’s overflowed, exhausted. I’m exhausted. My fingers cant type as fast as I think. My hands can’t keep up with the thoughts in my mind. Spelling mistakes. Oh lord the spelling mistakes. Breathe. I’m practising the art of breathing. A skill which is so commonly overlooked or underplayed. You only realise just how vital those inhales and exhales are when you have a cold. Those few days of having a blocked nose you’ll feel so grateful for the tunnels of life you once attained. Breathe. Breathe in through your nose out through your mouth. It’s a gift, one which is so underrated. This rush of I don’t know what to call it is back again. My fingers move ten to the dozen, my breath, it gets heavier. The mistakes in my writing worsen as my fingertips smash against the keyboard. Frustrated, I’m getting frustrated. Every backspace I make is a setback for the message I am trying to relay. Every backspace is an error of my ways. Blank. My mind goes blank as if it wasn’t just a minute ago oozing with ideas. As if not just a minute ago I rushed to open this document before these thoughts left me. I left my assignment to do this *said with an air of disappointment*.

I think that’s why my brain was about to explode.

Final year of university isn’t easy. My head is weighed down with decisions to be made, work to be completed and books to read. My eyes feel heavy. I’m tired. The workload can get so much and so stressful. That’s why I breathe. That’s why I have to remember to breathe. I can never let myself get so overwhelmed by this platform into employment because it’s what I chose to do. Everything will get done. This heavy weight will soon be lifted and to be honest I know I’ll miss it.

Dear Sister,

I can’t tell you your worth, you have to find it

No single individual can tell you your worth you can’t be reminded.

It breaks my heart. I shed tears for each and every one of you cause I’ve been there. So excited by the attention and the “love” he once provided.

It’s such a shame every girl felt like-minded…

You want to be reminded?

Do you want to be reminded of the times he made a mockery of you, the disrespect and this injustice to you? He played you like a violin and you let him. You thought the music sounded beautiful?

To me it was deafening…

You feel as though it’s hard to move on and to let go. When there was no friendship prior, there was no foundation built to remain true to someone who doesn’t do anything for you.

If he doesn’t make you happy then he does nothing for you!

So why cling on to these boys that belittle you. Instead you make excuses for him, same way I did. You can’t bear the thought of being alone, being divided.

Grasping hold of anything to make you feel content. Talking to someone who’s done you so wrong allows them to believe their actions were correct. If you excuse he’s behaviour you must have been misguided. Somewhere along the line you’ve allowed yourself to feel like less of a woman. You’ve allowed yourself to settle and be content with someone who is less than what life is.

I’m no expert in what they call love but I believe in believing in you. If I can see your worth without sexualising and objectifying, you should too.

Would you want your sister to be with someone like him, if yes?

I’ll be silent..

Writer’s Block.

In conversation with a friend, he mentioned to me that he felt my posts were targeted towards females and that’s the reason why he hadn’t thought about reading it himself. This may come as a surprise but I was shocked at his comment because through my writing I never felt as though I had a target market. I write from the heart but what he said rung true, so true that I didn’t want to single anyone out or discriminate in any way. His words struck a nerve with me so much so I decided to write a piece called ‘He’. 

My piece called ‘She’ was so popular with my friends, family and people who I hardly know, that I wanted to write a similar piece entitling it ‘He’ so I could reach out not only to females but males too,

So here it is, my creative writing piece named ‘He’… 

Entering manhood can be daunting. A man. What is this definition of a man? An adult human male. He. A human. And yet with this title he faces so much responsibility, so many standards to uphold. He struggles. And it’s okay to struggle. He comes with so many expectations and if he is defeated by one that makes him less of a man? The competition he faces , to always be better, do better. He has to have the nicest physique and the nicest attire. He. He must attract the nicest of girls. But not too many. Before he’s considered a player. But hey! To be a player might be nice. To be at the centre of attention in so many women’s eyes. To be the one everybody wants. And why can’t he have it all? He can. But at the cost of what? Something real. He plays and plays and it’s enthralling too. But that doesn’t make you a man. You’re just a youth. Youth.  The title he receives because of his ways. For a split second he thinks to himself maybe I should change. That goes in a flash with the next female that catches his eye. A red-blooded male. A hunter..

The movement in my fingers began to lessen. I stopped tapping away at the keyboard as my trail of thought came to a halt. When I write I feel it from my soul so what was it about this piece that I just wasn’t feeling. I read it over and over again and just couldn’t continue. I have never walked in the shoes of a man nor have I travelled the length of his brain so how could I possibly comment. How could I possibly know. How could I relate? I couldn’t. I was stuck for words I had something which I would call writers block. I was trapped. Trapped in a world where words no longer existed and it made me mad. Why were no words flowing? Why was nothing coming to me like before? This was the case for a number of days. Erasing sentence after sentence my writing became substandard.

Then I realised my friend was right. I spoke of ‘She’ so passionately because ‘She’ is all I know. A female in my own right. How could I possibly comment on something I have no understanding of.  It’s not what I was born to do. I write about what I know and I don’t know the life of a man it’s clear to see. 

So instead I choose to keep writing but only of what I know and what I feel within the depths of my soul. That way you can feel the emotion travelling through my finger tips onto your screens. My piece called ‘She’ was true and sincere. A collection of emotions most females have felt. If I can relate to something you’re more likely to, which outdoes the fictional writing I attempted with my piece called ‘He’. Picking at the fragmented misconceptions I may have of a man is not what I want my writing to be.  

I do not have a specific audience for my words.  If you feel it you do and if you don’t, that’s to be continued…


*Just a quick note before reading. Its not about any individual. Wrote this a long time ago, I’m not sad nor am I unhappy it was just my mind running away with me as always enjoy x

A trip in her mind

Adolescence can be over whelming. The need to fit in, what makes a young lady desirable, standards and double standards. Life in general is hard to understand and she questions herself a lot. She gives advice to her friends which she cannot live by herself, loses morals for boys that do not deserve to see her soul naked and bare. Striped to the roots, exposed. She exposes herself and blames herself. She knows what she is doing is not what she wants but doesn’t know how to change it, doesn’t know how to stop it. She. She doesn’t know how to love herself.

Finding inner happiness should not be hard. All the quotes tell her she must love herself before anyone can love her. She is learning. She tries. Unworthy boy after unworthy boy she loses a part of herself to each. Or maybe that is not the truth and it is just the mind telling her so. This is her journey that cannot be changed. Or can it? If she is whole she should be happy. And she is happy but not always. Is that normal? She thinks it is. Her mind wonders so often so often you will notice it in her words. Questioning herself is a daily occurrence. What is life? What is its purpose? What is a good guy? What is she looking for? Stop. She must stop. She is an over thinker and this will never change. Or can it? Meditation, it helps. It allows her to notice the little things in life. If she listens she can hear the mother bird feeding its chicks on her rooftop. The laugh of her neighbour. The sound of the wind and then an engine ruining the silence. The peace returns. That engine didn’t last. It comes and it goes. The same way her anxiety comes and goes. It will get better the engine may return but it is never for long. Listen. She listens. She listens to the actions of others, she listens to the words that they splutter, she listens so hard she gets it wrong. Takes the words of others to literal. They will never be like her they don’t have her heart.

She thought she fell in love once. She thought she fell in love twice. She will think she’s fallen in love a thousand times. But its not! Forced. She forced it. She won’t do that again. He’s in love with another now. Maybe she taught him how to love that other but she definitely didn’t teach him how to love her. Can love be taught? No. It Cannot. Impossible. It felt like a dagger to the heart to see him with another but how can she not be happy for he has found someone to love and love is all she wants.

She will never give up on love she believes it to be the most natural and beautiful thing in existence. Maybe she wasn’t made for these earthy things nor was she made for a man. Empowerment. Loving herself is now the journey that needs to be undertaken. Self’s love enlightens the soul and that is her journey. Soul searching, it what she has been doing. But for another, not for her own.

Her dream is simple to have a family, to love, to give and receive happiness, to experience life and love the journey. But yet she cries. When her ambition in life is to have a family, she spends most of her time thinking about the one she will marry. She is not naïve and enjoys meeting and getting to know new people. She knows who wants her heart, who wants her friendship and who just wants to feel the walls inside her that she once held so dearly. virginity. Its lost. But she doesn’t regret it if anything it taught her a thousand stories and she learnt a thousand lessons. She takes a moment to realise maybe regret does live here as she wouldn’t be writing this without it. Shaking it off she realises she’s young and beautiful, she has so much going for her and this weight on her shoulders can be lifted. She put it on herself.



Broken is a term our generation tend to throw around lightly. If I sleep with multiple men “I must be broken”. I was raised in something other than the norm nuclear family “definitely broken”. It’s rarely a term we use to describe others but instead ourselves. It’s crazy because what makes us broken? How did we end up broke? You look whole to me. Whole. To be whole is a myth. One in which so many try to be but we are human. Perfectly imperfect. In my belief, this term broken is a copout. Similar to the daddy less daughter or the bastard child son. It’s a get out clause in the contracts of our brain. Our brain. It’s a powerful instrument and yet us as humans get life so wrong. How do we get life so wrong?

We think by blaming someone else for the way we turned out is easier than looking within ourselves, our own flaws and to the depths of our souls to realise the error of our ways. Your ways. They can be changed. It ignites the fire in my soul when us as humans we realise these terms are all irrelevant. Can I put an emphasis on the recognition. We have realised these terms. Now realise they have little to do with our broken ways. Our ways. Let us do something about them. But yet we do nothing about them. We do nothing to change.

Primary socialisation, yes it matters, but if we realise we was brought up by fatherless fathers why cast the blame? Whatever the situation whether it is the same. Or whether we believe it to be a thousand times worse. Stop.

Stop and look to you.

We are the master of our own actions. We choose to smile. We choose to laugh. To cry. To be moody and we choose to not try. Try to change. “I am this way because of this other” so that makes it okay?

Time after time you hear people state this exact sentence. This other. Whether it be an ex, a sister, a father, mother or brother. It’s not them. It’s you. I can hiss quote after quote. “two wrongs don’t make a right” but what good would that do? If you’ve allowed someone to break you which is easy to do. You allowed to happen. You.

Only you have the power to fix your broken beliefs. Are we really broken? Or are we just thieves? Swiping away the actions of others and absorbing their negativity into the lives of our own.  My answer is no. Don’t let your past define you. Instead let us let it go.

I am not broken and neither are you. How we treat people is a reflection of no one but ourselves. Self justification distorts reality. So today, I realise the way in which I treated you was unacceptable and I blamed someone else for my actions. Today, I hope you realise the way you treated me was unacceptable and you blamed someone else for your actions. It was always okay because “oh he, she, it made me that way”.

Today we change. As I write this I pause for a second. Look down into the palms of my hands and sigh. I am human and to make mistakes is in my nature. However, now I choose to undo, all that pain I once thought you put me through.

To be or not to be,


Blogging made me believe


Just when I was losing hope in mankind. Blogging made me believe again.

In this world, you will never stop being surprised. You are surprised when you see three foxes in the street after coming home from a night out as if you thought they were extinct. You are surprised when your man crush Monday likes your least favourite picture on Instagram. You are surprised when your mum knows the entire lyrics to Drake – One Dance like she wasn’t born a lifetime ago.

Well that was me today. Completely and utterly flabbergasted.

I found myself believing in mankind. Believing in humanity. I’ve never been fond of humans. They aren’t very pleasant, are they? Nor are they considerate of other feelings. Oh, how I was wrong. I received 100 views within 2 hours of my blog being posted. I know these figures may not seem like much to some but to me it meant a great deal. Not because I feel uplifted by likes or by popularity but instead because I felt overwhelmed and moved by the support from these humans when I didn’t think very highly of humanity prior.

A sense of belonging and togetherness was created from something so simple. I felt inspired by your interest. You were interested in what I had to say. My writing. Something I had never shared before. A passion that was a hidden secret. One I held so dearly. So, I’d like to thank you. Thank you for making me feel a part of a collective that I once felt so distant from. And thank you for taking the time out to be interested.

To be human.