A pale Iris sky


I breathe in the profound chill of seeing a lunar cycle behind your eyes.
The rise and fall of expectation hidden in the craters.
We used to bathe in Diana’s silvery light, but now our backdrop is sickly cerulean blue.
Each pulse of dilation seems to drink in the strength, leaving only disproportionate waning, in ever-diminishing orbits.
Where once the gravity of our entwined existence kept us giddily and circling, now it pulls us only to the ground.

I’m still searching in your eyes in hope of a new moon, but are you already seeking out something new?

© PickledSparklyMoosePrincess – author

more poems

Shadow puppets


I’m making shadow puppets for you,
But my left eye
Took a turn
About a hundred miles back
And I can’t see
If your shadow moves towards me or away.

I could have sworn that this was
Something more than
Fear and static.
Someone whispered in your voice
But you weren’t there
And it echoed in the hollows and the cracks.

I’m writing calligraphic nightmares
For you to touch
When it’s quiet
Enough to see the shadows
Dancing once before the lights can burn us out.

Fevers and Dust


I have, at times been my biggest disappointment,
Expecting the superhuman, inside and out,
But finding the dregs of a lacklustre animal,
Rolling their eyes and then rolling on over.

I guess I rolled over for you too.

The fires were bright for some time,
Burning out the rot,
And the stars inside and out,
Almost aligned,
So that I was almost content with who I’d grown to be.

And there was always you, holding my hand.

I don’t know when the cleansing fires burned out,
And the mildew enveloped me once more.
An organic tide change when it all started
To come apart.

But you thought I chose it.

That content so sought was buried,
The assurance drowned in the night,
And nothing but fevers and dust,
Could live up to expectations.

Not yours, and not mine.

Am I your biggest disappointment,
Your one big regret?
Am I nothing but a constant reminder,
That you are tethered to something so frayed?

This dust just won’t settle.

And unless your words are sent to crush me,
And keep me in the shadows,
Then why don’t you accept my failures?
Please help me mould them into something new.

And If you won’t,
Or if you can’t , then who am I
To trap you
In this perpetual monumental disappointment?

I know I will never be enough


You know those skies,
The ones that beg
For would-be lovers,
To brush lips.

The molten amber orb
of the sun,
Melting into the horizon.

Smears of shameless light
radiating through
a glorious mackerel swathe,

With all the pastel shades
blended artfully
before they caress the ground.

I still see those skies,
I can feel the tangible beauty,
fearlessly nudging me,
towards rapture.


My shadow stands in the echo,
of another man’s shadow.
I don’t fear that darkness,
his secrets, your lies,
It just stirs a
cruel hunger,
for fire.

Don’t feed me,
Nor compassion.
The fragment is lost,
In a wave of sadness,
from some other man’s peril,
But the echo rings around me.

And if you or he can worked out
what this is all about,
I’ll be waiting
right here.

I keep my promises…

I like to wrote poems. I like the way you have to really consider the texture, the feel, the setting and the consequences of the chosen words. I like the fact that it is a stark contrast to my usual free style of writing, that it is measured and weighed and evaluated several times, unlike this, which is just coming out directly without any censoring (except major typos). That said, please excuse typos in poems; the weighing and mulling was done at the time of writing , not the time of typing.

Here are a selection of poems I have written over the years. The content largely deals with my struggles with depression, anxiety, paranoia and anorexia and self harm. Don’t read these if you are easily triggered or in a really bad place. The other thing I should say is that despite my history I haven’t selfharmed in several years and I’m almost fully recovered from anorexia. No matter how bad you feel, you have the power to turn things around.











Sickness of the Naïve





In the Kitchen

On reflection