I know I’ve been neglecting this blog a bit, but I have been writing!

I’ve been going to a writing group. It’s at the hospital, but it’s not ‘therapy’…at least not in the traditional sense. Once a week, for an hour and a half, we’re all just writers. There are random words or phrases as stimuli (so far I’ve written about old folk, faith, hating something, autumn and the police), and we just write. And it feels good. Writing is something I enjoy, and something I’ve been told I’m not too bad at. I still can’t bring myself to call what I write ‘poetry’, but that’s definitely my own issue.

On top of this, I’ve been doing a bit of ‘writing’ at home. I say ‘writing’ because it’s all done on my phone, so doesn’t feel like proper writing. I have a friend who I trade writing with, and I have been bombarding her with my not-poems over the past wee while. Some aren’t bad, and some are. But that’s ok. It’s the writing that matters.


We call them ‘meds’.
Informal –
like a friend.

For most of us, meds are old friends,
who we arrange to meet every day
(but miss a few
here and there)

Meds have personalities.

Some are daredevils, walking a tightrope ten feet up.
Making us sick to our stomachs.

Some are dull, going on and on and on…
Until we can’t keep our heavy eyelids open

And some absolutely love meeting for food.
Forcing us to eat and eat
(just to be polite).

But, sick tired and fat,
we hold on to that spark of hope
– try to kindle it.

Because maybe, just maybe
They’ll work this time.