Watch me smile.

My photo
I'm little, red headed mess, more hair than mass or sense. All I really want to do is make something magical and show the world and have it be proud of me.

Friday, 24 April 2009

How much pathos is deservered for an unloved little girl?

So, my Father's being a maniac and it's making me cry. Hard.

When he left the door last night, I shouted "I love you!" I didn't get a reply.

So here I sit, alone, YET AGAIN, crying my eyes out.

Saturday, 18 April 2009


The waves are flat, dead, where the wind laps across, skimming and dancing over the grey concoction of salt and water. The sky is clear, yet it still appears somewhat grey through the crystal blue of the gaping hole into space. The fresh air is just about all I need to enlighten myself through the storm. I know that the worst may be over now, but even through the mist the cranes and the factory funnels and the bright lights of the big smoke creep over the horizon and into my vision. I may feel fully edified, but I can feel the grey clouds, always lurking beyond the estuary and collaborating with the ocean to rain on me when I least expect it.

And now it's twenty nine minutes past midnight on a Friday night and I'm still wearing my jeans. I've finally finished my charcoal of Vickie and things are looking up. As I sit alone, I feel small in this large, tumbling down house, and once again, I want to hunch myself up as tiny as I can get in spite of my size eight skinny jeans and cry.


Isn't she beautiful?

Saturday, 11 April 2009


Because I have a russian keyboard.

Tonight I'm going to Nottingham me thinks.

I need to draw Vickie Smith.

Perhaps I'll upload that later.

Here's Eve Deighton.

Yes, indeed it is.

I really must crack on with that drawing, until then,

пока xx

Tuesday, 7 April 2009

Not cut out for parenting.

Oh crap, oh crap. Oh, crappy crappy crapola crapness.
I'm about to cry. The orange shagband I'm taking my sadness out on is straining, and I don't want to give a blow job just because I broke some plastic. Six months have I been pinning my life down on maybes, maybe he'll change his mind, maybe he'll have some kind of mercy on me, maybe he'll forget and never ask again. Oh why oh why are my walls so thin. I can hear Mamie in the kitchen, shouting with frustration, and if I use my imagination enough, I can hear a calm deep northern voice through the phone line, telling her what she's supposed to think. Why can't they just support me? Can't they just deal with me, accept me, or something? I can hear it all through the walls, my parents wish they'd never had me, they wish I hadn't caused so many problems, or had so many problems they can't be arsed to deal with, I didn't bleed them dry, I didn't always make the wrong decisions. Have I made the wrong decision? Is everything about to fall through, am I reaching that bit of life when your head pops out of the childish cloud and never goes down again? I don't know. I do know.
They hate me.

Saturday, 4 April 2009


I'll miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms
I'll miss the comfort of my mother and the weight of the world
I'll miss my sister, miss my father, miss my dog and my home.
Yeah, I'll miss the boredom and the freedom and the time spent alone.

Joseph, beautiful and dead.
I sometimes wonder what it's like down there,If the six feet of soil resting on your broken chest bothers you at all. do my tears feel like raindrops through the mud?Rubey swears that there's still blood on the gravel, which I know you'd laugh and make some kind of snide comment that I'd try not to laugh at while Rubey pretended to be hurt. Do you miss things? Can you miss things? Do you miss me? Because I miss you, really bad. You know I can hardly last an hour without having a good old bitch to someone, and that someone was always you. I've spent seven months trying to recast my bitch, but, hey, you can't replace an original. You were one of two of my best friends; me, you and Rubey. Can I still call you my friend, even if you are dead? Do you still think of us as your best friends from whatever depth of heaven you've been ascorted to? We went to your funeral, Gearge read out the lyrics to time to pretend, your favorite song which kind of suits you perfectly. Jayne and Garry didn't let him say the swear words. Francis said stuff about you and your brotherly qualities and hugged loads of people (like he does ;)). He also told us (me and Rubey) about the court stuff. He said that the man got three years in prison and banned from driving for a good while. He said, which was comforting, that when he found you, you still had your ipod in your ears, Time to pretend on repeat. I remember how the three of us, in your kitchen, all sat there and smiled, each with different memories and reminiscents of you and that song. You were the best, I love you, Joe.

Forget Me Not.

I sit on the garden step, and wonder where my serenity has gone. Yes, it's gone. The forget-me-nots rise above the grass in my Mothers perfect garden as if they're better than the green blades. I can see that they're just weeds. I want to walk over the patio and onto the grass, rip them out of the soil, cry and scream as my short arms flail in the weeds until I'm lost. Lost somewhere where I don't have to make decisions, where there are no forget-me-nots ruining the veiw from the afternoon, where no one forgets me. I wish that when I wake up, the grass runs longer than five foot one and I won't be able to see whats happening over there, anywhere. A place where no one has worked so hard that they care that the beautiful things ruin everything; they do.
My serenity has been decayed through the water covering my wide green eyes.
Do my tears feel like raindrops through the mud?