The Insta Singer

I Googled myself today.

All that stuff of me singing came up.  I listened to it, cringing with each sung note.  I have that moment where I realise that I am a no singer, not at all.   You know, I really didn’t want to sing, I did it for you.  No, you didn’t know that – my question was rhetorical.  I was so desperate to impress you and hadn’t much in my arsenal to use – being broke, unemployed, with very little talent.  But I thought, at least you can sing (thought, being the key word).  So, I spent the last of my money I had in a last-ditch effort to impress you; to grab your attention.  Jazz.  I saw somewhere that you like jazz, so I recorded these songs – jazz songs – and every other day, I placed them on Instagram.  11 songs over 22 days (more or less), and you didn’t like any of them – not one.  And, to add further insult to injury, on 23rd day I post a picture of me cuddling a cat and lo and behold, I get a like.  I get a like because I was with a fucking cat – a cat that wasn’t even mine I should add (I’m more a of a dog person).  That was the day I gave up singing.  It should have been the day that I gave you up, but that task has proved to be a lot more difficult.

Did you know writing cost you nothing – well, nearly nothing?  Did you know that you can take as long as you want to let each letter turn into words, those words turn into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs?  Do you know that each time I hit publish and share my creations with the world I feel I’ve accomplished something?  Do you know the feeling I have knowing the words I turn into paragraphs are all mine?  Every day for the past seven months, I have written – mostly about you.  Yes, I know you didn’t know that.  And, I’m happy to say that in the past seven months you have actually liked one of my postings – me cuddling a cat – a cat that wasn’t even mine I should add (I’m more a of a dog person) – it seems you are more of a cat person.

And, I still Google myself.  I want to ensure my words are still there on the world-wide-web.   That the words I turn into sentences for you, are still there.  That if I die tomorrow my words, my sentences, and me and that bloody cat, will live long after me.


You are…

Let me be the person that tells you, every single morning,
that you are both beautiful and remarkable.

The Keepsake

You tell me to keep singing,
I am. Without words, there’d be no songs.  I made that.
Listen to my sweet, sweet blues,
my high, high reds, and my low, low browns.
I am singing.  I’ve never stopped.
You’ve just stopped listening.

You tell me to keep singing,
And I tell you, I am.  Tell me, what would you like to hear?
Do you want to turn my blues into red, my red into blues,
and for me to have no colours in-between?
To turn me into you?

You tell me to keep singing,
I am singing.  I’ve never stopped.
You’ve just stopped listening.



You called yourself a failure because you chipped a finger nail.
That’s when I knew I needed so much more than you;
and you needed so much less of me.


Some day people will ask, ‘what inspires you the most?’ I will turn, look at you, and without having to say one word, they all will know my answer.


You tell me that love is not always beautiful;
a lie betrayed each time I look into your eyes.


Each day for 40 years, he asked her to marry him, and on each day for 40 years, she said ‘yes’.

She once asked him, ‘after 40 years of marriage, why do you still ask?’

‘Just in case you’ve changed your mind,’ he replied, ‘just in case, you’ve changed your mind.’


You freed me.
With you, my limited world, became limitless;
and all that was impossible, suddenly became possible.


I took your hand and squeezed it so hard, I thought I’d die.

In not letting go, I didn’t realise that I klled you instead.