The Rain Paradox

Poem-Story, Poetry
raining pours

Singh Photography X Bedroom Poet 

Rain can paradoxically be the thing that stops us from living, or the thing that reawakens our living.

When it rain, it pours.
Thunder all around
Across the moors.
All doors shut,
And back leans against yours.
You stop.
You stare,
Paralysed by fear’s glare.
But then you think,
“F*ck it, I’m going to do it anyway”.


Happy 88th Birthday Poppa <3



A man of class, and eight-eight
Walking tall and never late
Enjoys a whisky
When the clock dots six
We’ll pour for him
His heavenly mix
Can chat about anything
and everything
and more
And when the dot strikes eight,
It’s out the door
And down the stairs
To enjoy a plate
Of whatever his darling wife
Told the cook to make.
He likes his curries
And spaghetti bolonaise,
A potato souffle,
And his creme brûlée
Bananas glazed with syrup
And rich cocoa
And drizzled with that liqueur
He’s got on the go. 

As the years go on,
His family grows fonder
Of that mind of his
Filled with absolute wonder.
He can tell you about anything
And everything
And more,
When questions need answering
I knock on his door.
Jazz chords and good conversations
Pour out of his door,
My poppa I love him,
Forever and more. 

(I should have posted this on May 1st – his birthday – my apologies! He did enjoy me reading it to him, I think it may have “embarrassed” him a little too :P) 

My gosh, Grace!



A magical potion of poetry…
Pure magic!
Voyaging, pirouettes and twirls
Up and down,
All around
With yellow sunflowers
Oozing out of every pore
Purple swirls radiating from her crown
A Poetic ballerina
And her own ballad of poetry
An ocean of fire and smiles
Poetry in motion
She brought that notion to life!
She walks in and the room lights up.
You see it, not just me !
When she dances or sings the day lights up.
And when she talks
Or plays those strings
The world lights up
You see it, not just me
She’s just so lit up
She brought lit into being.
She’s a being like no other.
Her eyes grow wild with
An innocent and raw fire
Everytime something excites her.
Takes her higher
Everything is new to her.
Everything is beautiful.
Everything is “splendid”.
Everything is everything,
All at once.
Her name says it all
But it still doesn’t do justice
To the magnificence
And magic
That is Grace.
When she walks with you,
Not a day grows old. 

uSed tO bE


Artboard 1bpp55

People’ll only remember you for
what you did yesterday
yesteryear or years back
no matter how much you changed
no matter how much you
uprooted the ivy of your bad habits
they’ll treat you like you’re still the same.

Yeah, Tony stole my lunchbox back in year three
So that must mean he’ll never be good to me.
Once a cheat, always a cheat.
You’re an alco, not anonymous!
And his name’s still synonymous
with drug dealer and murderer.

It’s just that game we like to play
We’d rather not change our opinions of things
we’d rather not evolve
Or move on
we’d rather not accept that we can do better
that we will do better
that we are doing better.
We’d rather stick with the same old, same old,
with what we know,
than shift our gears into a higher plane.
But i’m telling you I’m not the same.
You’re not the same.

And when you consciously choose to not be the same,
To do better,
Be the best version of you there is,
That serves your highest good
You as the creator,
Because you are a creator –
Then you really aren’t the same.
But they’ll treat you like you’re still the same.

Redemption is a decision that can be made in a millisecond
and the only one who needs to forgive you is you.
You must be redeemed in your own eyes, no one else’s.
Because your God loves you,
He never even felt like he needed to forgive you.
In his eyes, you are love.

You don’t have to be that person you were.
You don’t have to be those things you did.
You aren’t as bad as they say you were.
You can choose!

See, Those mistakes you made,
I like them.
They make you human.
I accept them.
One day you’ll stop making them
Or you’ve already stopped making them!
Maybe they weren’t even mistakes
But habits that you fell into
That ultimately didn’t serve you
But didn’t they kinda serve you
Because they showed you the version of yourself
you don’t want to be?
They shaped you into the living lit being
you are being and breathing right now.

Why can’t they understand how,
We’re not the things we did
The things we said,
the people we hurt,
The lowliest dirt of ourselves.

I’d won’t undo what I did.
Nor erase it, edit it.
pretend like I didn’t do it,
Be ashamed.

And I won’t answer to those who call on a name
Acting like it’s still one and the same.
Change is the only constant of our existence.
And I ain’t the me you thought I was way back,
So stop acting like it’s just the same old cat
Drops of the different versions of us
Are ingrained in eternity
But that girl way back…
Yeah, that ain’t me.

And that boy you were…
Yeah, I’ll have to accept it.
That ain’t you no more.
You changed for the better.
I’m happy for you.
I hope they see it too.

The Eurasian Girl’s Burden



Every time I leave my bedroom
I feel like I have to reassert who I am.

My skin is white,
But my history is far from pure white.

It’s filled with every colour under the sun.

But it all means nothing
When they can’t see the rainbow.


Every single day when I open my mouth,
To speak the language of my mother,
The first language I ever breathed life into,
The one I’ve known my whole life,
The one whose blood runs through my veins…
I get looks of shock.
I am questioned.

Always questioned.


Half the person I should be?


And when I speak English…



Maybe it’s an
International accent.
Or an accent-less accent.
Though there is a faint hint of British in it.
But then I’m told it’s got an American twang
Or that it’s filled with
Australian slangs.
Apparently who I am dangles
So dangerously in my accent.

It makes me want to
Stop talking altogether.

So I retreat to the bedroom
Where I can just be myself.

Travelling through Soul


Screen Shot 2560-03-31 at 10.08.10 AM.png

My home is where my soul goes
When the winds of the world
Blow cold
No one can touch my soul though
Because it’s written in the winds
Of wherever my home goes.
The temple of love hymns away the whistle blows
Of the machined cave
The light shifts through my head, shoulders,
Out my toes
Deep into the earth’s soul
Firmly rooted
The light from beneath me lifts me up completely
My third eye in overload
And the energy implodes
Into my soul.
My soul is my home and I hear it singing
Lightly against the rainbows of life’s wind
And every life’s wind.

Becoming Prettier…

Poem-Story, Poetry


All the girls gather,
Looking oh so pretty,
Perfect bodies,
Porcelain skin,
Or tanned beauties,
Hair thick, long or luscious,
Jaw lines on point,
Perfect noses,
Full, perky breasts,
Full smiles.


She paid 5 mill to look that way.
6 months spent going in and out of operations,
Under the knife
All because her husband couldn’t stand to have a wife
That looked less magnificent than a trophy wife.
Or her manager told her to.
Her breasts aren’t hers.
Her skin she bleached white
Because they told her to fight for white.
Or, they told her white was boring,
“Get a tan girl!”
So she smothers herself with fake tan every night
And lies under the cancerous UV light
As much as she can.
Her teeth pearl white because she had them done.
Couldn’t eat for 3 days straight.
Tummy tucked,
Fat sucked out.
Hair implants
Or extensions of virgin hair flown in from India.
Chemical peels
Lips done.
Her nose was broken into place
3 times.
Her face her biggest lie.
Money well spent
Because apparently the way she looked was never good enough.

Their smiles hide a million tears.