The same words
December 3, 2011

by Elexa Rose
It’s everything
you never say.
I feel the words
on your tongue
every time
you let me kiss you.
It’s everything
that’s just round
the corner.
The movies that play
inside my head.
It’s all for you.
These same songs all
recycle the same words.
It’s everything
that I can’t control.
Slipping and
in spiral shapes
across and beyond
the horizon.
We’re reaching.

Let’s call it an experiment, and this the results.
December 3, 2011

by Elexa Rose
It’s fine by me –
Another day,
Another night.
I see your face
In the Amber light.
Why break this ride?
It feels too good.
It slows my head,
Just like you should.
I find comfort
In reddened eyes.
My throat burns.
Another dream dies.
Each breath I take
Heals the scars.
I think in silence,
And hear the stars.

November 23, 2011

Flash fiction, because people don’t accept it as a concept.

When my Father died he left me his helmet. It sits on the top shelf in my wardrobe, snug in between a box of newspaper clippings and some shoes that I only wear on special occasions, over the slightly diagonal pole that my clothes hung from, sliding slightly to the left. To be honest, I’d forgotten about it for a good few years until today. It was only because my friend – boyfriend – had asked me about it today.

“I wouldn’t have you put down as a motorcycle kind of girl,” he said curiously. I’m not a motorcycle kind of girl. Mostly, I ignored his comment. We were in a rush anyway, and I couldn’t find my new fur coat, I got it half price.

We left once the taxi arrived, tonight he was taking me to see Phantom of the Opera; he’d surprised me with the theatre tickets about a month ago, though I’d been dropping hints for a while. Still, it was a nice gesture, comparably. On our way he continued to question me of the apparently strange contents of my wardrobe.

“What were all those bits of newspaper for?” He asked in a more interrogatory manner. I lied and said that they were food articles, fancy deserts, decorations ideas for cupcakes, strangest ice cream flavours from around the world. I knew this would start him off on another speech about how good food is like ‘great sex’ and the way it can really ‘change the world’, how great cooking can make you a ‘better person’. He was too zealous to realise that I was interesting in the blurred lights of the traffic.

Once we arrived I lit up a cigarette, he sighed,

“We’ll miss the beginning.” His voice had gone stern now. I took a long drag. He knew we weren’t going to miss anything. It was just one of those things that he said. Like when I order rump steak at a restaurant instead of the chicken salad, he’ll always say something along the lines of,

“You won’t regret it if you order the healthier option.” Though we both knew that the piles of crisp cut vegetables was not going to make me ‘feel as good inside’ (as he would put it) as the medium rare slab of meat would.

As we stood in the cold air outside the theatre entrance, I watch the road. A few black cabs rolled up that dropped off more attractive couples than us. The men with more expensive, fitted suits and carefully groomed stubble. The women more curvaceous, doing a marvellous balancing act on glamorous stilettos. Though, just before we went inside, to take our seats, a roaring motorcycle parked up front. A slightly larger, middle aged man unmounted the bike, and pulled off a helmet that was identical to the one in my wardrobe. As he walked past I said to him,

“I like your helmet.” He smiled and nodded in acknowledgement before disappearing through misted glasses doors.

Ever since then, that helmet has been in all of my thoughts, and I can’t put my finger onto why.

Did someone mention impressionistic characterisation?
November 19, 2011

You’re not really a part of my life though, are you really? I see you, nuzzling your way in, trying to become something, mean more than you will ever mean. I’ll smile at you in the street, if I saw you, though I doubt I’d see you. Look right through. I don’t have the strength to say goodbye, though the words will linger in my teeth, in my saliva, as if I once had the intent, to walk away. You tied me down here, tight. Though my mind will wander, far away. It smells like blood in here, and you have that look upon your face as if you have another bright idea, that I won’t like. Time passes. I didn’t like it. I try to kid myself. Oh god.

I let you win, again. Your words left my head spinning. The struggle against you – the ease in your arms. With your warmth wrapped around me the world flows easily, down my throat in impressive cocktails, in expensive champagnes, I can’t help but be swept off of my feet. Every single fucking time. Your words spin my thoughts into mini whirlwinds. But as soon as you leave, there will be destruction to honour your memory. I don’t want to beg for you to come back, any more. I’d rather live, missing you, but I am the rag doll you throw around. Don’t call me ‘sweety’. I hate that.

November 15, 2011

by Elexa Rose
I can’t think of anything better
than strawberry ice cream.
Euphoria in a pale crimson.
Discoloured photos of my
first day of school.
Symmetrical ruby ribbons
stark in my dark hair.
Grinning, I barely acknowledge
that they’re there.
Screaming, shrill.
It breaks the horizon,
with a flock of fleeing birds.
The rope tightens.
Red velvet curtains pull apart
like a break heart.
Scripted words feel real
because we’re just that good.
But the scream…
It’s not quite right.
A woman sobs.
Out of pride?
They take their bows.
Pull out the knife
from a large, chocolate birthday cake.
He notices how far
she’s bitten her nails down.
Dry blood in the tiny crevices.
She’s smiling, laughing even.
But her eyes scream out.
They search for whoever is looking.
She remembers the strawberry ice cream
of last Summer.
This is the last time these
curtains will fall.
Euphoria in dark, rich

Day 15. Something I Couldn’t Live Without.
November 15, 2011

~Thirty Days of Truth Challenge (

Something not someone. I am emphasising this point for reasons explained and explored on day 7. Go have a gander at that if you like. So, my thoughts on this so far are either music – though that’s been done to death a bit – or something along the lines of my phone, car, straighteners – because we are all materialistic to an extent – or possibly something more academic, books, literature, poetry – but it would be extreme to say I couldn’t live without these things – so I’m not quite sure. I’ll ramble about all of the above.


Most people express that they can’t live without music, which I agree with, it’s a king of therapy for the brain. Nothing really is more emotionally stimulating that music, it’s emphatic, direct, and in some respects, brash, which is why literature is my chosen art, however, music is still one of my loves. The human race has always been and always will be addicted to music. I genuinely believe the human race cannot function without it. Seeing as I’m talking about it I’m going to chuck in a song, at the moment I’m listening to Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson, I absolutely love this song, it epitomises being chilled and relaxed, care-free. Plus I love banana pancakes.


I actually can’t live without my phone. It is attached to me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I think it’s part of the generation I was brought up in, I’ve had a mobile phone since I was 11 or 12, I think that was my first contract phone anyway, I think I had a shitty pay as you go thing for  of prior to that. Anyone who knows me knows that I spend way too much time on my phone, on facebook, texting, calling, whatever. I can’t help myself. Which leads to my straighteners, yes we all have an element of vanity. I spend too much time straightening my hair, and I will likely be bald by the time I’m twenty-five but I don’t care. My hair is naff. So I singe it into acceptability. I really want to new generation GHDs though, I have fourth gen, but the golds are out… and have been for a while. But I know I don’t need them. It’s pointless. But I want them. And my car, Edwin, the Peugeot 106 ’97. Less than 1 litre engine. The steering wheel shakes when it goes over 60/65. Poor little thing is a little beaten up from my terrible driving, but in my defense I am still in my first year. I just love my car, it’s like a little home away from home, plus I love physically driving. I hate public transport. It’s awkward and annoying. I love that I can just jump in my car and go anywhere. But parking and petrol is a bitch, we all know, but I love my car. Especially driving down the motorway, when I go home. Four hours in the Edwin, struggling to get past 70, 200 miles, blaring my iPod through a sound system that is barely there. Gotta love the first car (: the novelty of driving hasn’t worn off yet.


Language, literature, reading, writing. It’s how I chose to spend my life, it is my life, it is what I do, it is what I am, who I am. It is how I define myself, and English student. Maybe one day I’ll actually call myself a writer. When I’m published. Journalist? Novelist? Poet? Critic? I don’t know or care. As long as I can do what I love and live off of it, I’ll be happy. I probably can’t live without words. Not just for the obvious reasons of communication, I mean, if I wasn’t allowed to write or read for enjoyment, I’d wither into a dry old toad. I’d be nothing. A malnourished ball of depression and worthlessness. Haha.

Don’t take this post too seriously.

Literature’s Biggest Myth
November 7, 2011

Okay, I’m probably going to get a lot of people opposing me here, but fuck it. Most people believe that literature is all about expression, a deeper meaning, emotion. That’s why people think, oh I have a strong feeling, therefore if I write a poem or novel about it, it will be amazing because I am feeling this. It’s ‘real’. Literature is not about expressing yourself, it’s about giving the reader an experience. Personal expression is for your own consumption. For your journals, blogs, diaries, post-it notes, or whatever. Yes content is important, and I’m not saying the content of what I’m writing in these posts isn’t something I’ve felt, or it’s pointless or whatever, but I’m not writing it because I want to tell the world, ooh look what I’m feeling, because most of the time that’s not what I’m feeling when I write it. Yes I guess I am trying to express something, but there’s so much more to it than that! It’s about creating something that stands out, that makes an impact. And it’s not just in the words you use, words are amazing, don’t get me wrong, but words are only 10% of literature. This is why I think I prefer poetry. Why can’t you want to write a poem because you like the sounds of certain words? Or because you want to subvert something? Genre? Social rules? Pragmatics? Surprise the reader. I’m not saying that I do this well, but what I am saying is this is what I strive for, this is the poetry I can appreciate the most. Where you can see the writer has done more than just had an emotion. I like poetry that manipulates language, down to how it is presented on a page. Semantics is such a beautiful and amazing thing, I don’t think people really see just how much words have to offer. I don’t think I’m being clear so I’m going to quote a poem that isn’t about expressing an emotion, it is about language choice, syntax, grammar, linguistic expectations, structure, etc. It worms its way into your head, inception, true poetry. I’m getting over excited now.

Paul Simon variations
by Matthew Welton
I’m laying out my winter clothes.
            I’m laying out my winter girl.
                        I’m laying up my winter girl.
I’m fucking up my winter girl.
            I’m fucking up my Spanish girl.
                        I’m fucking up your Spanish girl.
Who’s fucking up your Spanish girl?

Okay, I’m probably really bias because Matthew Welton is my lecturer, but he is a brilliant contemporary poet! I challenge anyone who writes purely for emotion, try this, if it’s a love poem, try writing about love without using any language commonly associated with love, or affection. If it’s a poem about loss, depression etc, try to not use any negative language or imagery. I love experimenting with stuff like this. Most of the time it turns out awfully, but you learn so much, and it’s fun. Well I think it is. Recently I’ve been trying to write a poem that incorporates the line “the stars collide” because I really love the imagery it creates, nothing I’m particularly proud of has come out of it yet. But I’ve got a good few half poems scribbled down. Also, I tried to write a poem about suicide without mentioning anything depressing. It definitely needs tweaking, but that will likely be posted soon.

I fear this post is a bit sporadic and isn’t very cohesive, but oh well. I needed a little literary rant. Basically, I’m sick of people seeing pieces of great writing only as a form of expression, as a result of some strong emotion, and I’m sick of people only writing because they ‘feel’ it. And they get ‘inspired’ by something ‘beautiful’ or whatever. Inspiration has nothing to do with it. Well it does, but the greats do not wait for a magical sunset, or heart-break until they write something amazing. It’s art, and if you want to be an artist, you gotta churn it out relentlessly, otherwise you will never be great. That’s my view anyway. Like, an athlete, if you want to be the best, you have to train every day, have a strict regime, and stick to it. Published writers do a similar thing, they have a regime, they have to get through a certain number of words at a certain rate, otherwise they will only ever be amateurs.

The Art Of Keeping Sane
November 4, 2011

“If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.” Lord Byron.

I saw this quoted on a blog today, and it really made me stop and think. I really do whole-heartedly agree with this statement. I love to write, you can never write too much. I could write until my hands fell off. For instance, I love this whole blog medium, where I can write things that I’d like people to respond to, my thoughts, such as this one. Something that some like-minded invidual could stumble across, and spur some sort of conversation. I love conversation. I really love talking to people, about anything, opinions, the past, hopes for the future, makes people happy, sad, likes, dislikes, thoughts, anything. I find it very hard to get on with people that aren’t very conversational. I find myself rambling on at them, and then trailing off because I feel like I’m boring them. Anyway. Writing.

Yes, I also, for the past three months I have been keeping a diary, and I have actually been writing in it quite regularly. To begin with it was a little tedious. I never really knew what to write about, I’d tried keeping a diary befor and given up, as most do. Also, I found I never really had the time for it. But now it’s actually a part of my routine, before I go to bed, if I have some time between or before lectures, it’s just part of a habit now, to flick open my diary and write down whatever is on my mind. I wouldn’t say it’s representative of my thoughts, or my life, it’s whatever is bugging me really, my main thought. I don’t like going into the ins and outs of everything, because it’s not for anyone else to read, it’s just a little record of my head. I like reading old entries, and seeing how things have developed. It really does help to instill a sense of progression in your life. And in that sense, the above quote is really apt. Worries and stresses seem less so when they’re written down, in your own words, problems seem easier to overcome. It’s a venting process that I don’t think I could live without any more. It’s the only way you can be really, truely, completely open and honest, without worrying about judgement or anything. I easily feel overwhelemed and get a bit crazy to be honest, get all worked up about petty things, and writing all the shit down does help. It’s a cliche, yes yes. But as most cliches, it’s a cliche for a reason. I’ve used the word cliche too many times now.

Also, as you can see from this blog, I absolutely adore creative writing, poetry & fiction, though I haven’t uploaded any fiction, and I probably won’t. It’d be too long. And it’s a bit more personal, I find. But poetry in particular, is such a pure form of art, it’s multi-sensory and can evoke absolutely anything. You can do anything with words. And I love that. I get too excited over language. Anyway, does anyone else agree with the quote? Any other lovers of words reading these pointless entries? Haha, I hope so.

Five Most Awesomest Books Like Ever
November 2, 2011

  1. Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell – this is my favourite book, I love the whole concept behind the book, the idea of Big Brother, I mean it really does play on everyone’s worries, complete invasion of privacy, stripped bare of any identity or power. We all fear the governement having too much power, and this really creeps me out personally. Winston, not only is he brilliantly developed character that you can completely relate and feel engaged with, but he is lovable, human. His affair with Julia is beautiful, and she doesn’t need to be the feminine, quiet, reserved, traditional woman. She is strong, she is rebellious and yet, still their love is so tender. It might not be courtly love, but then again it is, in it’s own right, their courtship, the note, the disjointed conversation they have to risk so much for to have, it is powerful in it’s vulnerability. I won’t ruin the book for anyone who hasn’t read it, but go, go read it right now, enrich your life!
  2. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald – flamboyant, yes, hyperbolic, probably but the book reflects the story, the character of Gatsby. It’s epic and lexically luxurious. It’s cleverly written as well, drip-feeding the reader just enough information to fully explore the characters and the story of infactuation with curiousity. Every metaphor and image links perfectly, I just have to applaud Fitzgerald, he really has thought about absolutely everything, no word is unessecary, he leaves no aspect of this novelette untouched and perfected. I over the use word perfect I think.
  3. The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night Time by Mark Haddon – simple, humourous and yet still moving. This semi-light hearted journey of a kid with asperges is a real eye-opening, it makes you see the world in a new light, maybe that’s a bit extreme, but in a way it does. I have never seen this been done before, Haddon narrates as this kid, showing him not in a light to be sympathic. We don’t feel sorry for him exactly, nor do we feel distanced from him, we experience the world how he does. Wonderfully pragmatic, I’ve read this book at least half a dozen times.
  4. Any Human Heart by William Boyd – this book follows pretty much the entire life of one man. You really feel like you grow up with him, he’s not the best, nicest, cleverest, worst, weirdest man in the world, he’s normal, but he lives an extraordinary life. Well, it is his life, and I think it goes to show how really, every life is extraordinary. Life is amazing. As a youngun it makes me feel excited about the future, it really does inspire you, show you in ways that people can’t express with the cliche, you can be and do anything you want. Also, it shows how even if things don’t go to plan, and it won’t most of the time, and you are going to have some good times and some shit times, your life is still wonderful and every experience is an experience you won’t want to forget.
  5. New Moon by Stephenie Meyer – OKAY. Calm down. It’s my guilty pleasure. I almost wasn’t going to put it, put something more ‘canon’ appropriate or whatever. But no. This isn’t the best written book, or one to be studied, it’s not fabulous. But you know what, it’s a teenage chick flick, and by jove I love it. This one is my favourite from the Twilight saga because I’m not a fan of Edward, yes he’s awesome, but I’m more of a Team Jacob girl myself, he’s the bad boy, he rides a motorcycle, and he shows Bella the kind of attraction that every girl wants. I woudn’t reccomend this book to anyone, unless you love teenager chick flicks, and are okay with the fantasy element. And it’s not normally my think, honestly, but this book is a fun read (:

Why I Love Poetry
October 31, 2011

Sheep In Fog

By Sylvia Plath

The hills step off into whitness
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them

The train leaves a line of breath
O slow
Horse the colour of rust

Hooves, dolorous bells –
All morning the
Morning has been blackening.

A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.

They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.


Every line in the poem so perfectly written, it really is. I’m not going to go into each and every thing I love about this poem, but I will pick out a few, basic things. I love the imagery in the line, ‘the train leaves a line of breath’, because it really instills the loneliness evoked in this poem, with connotations of the end of life, reinforced with the repeated ‘morning’ in the next stanza, holding the same phonetics as ‘mourning’. I’ve tried writing similarly, to create the same sense of fragility and vulnerability but I find it always comes across too harsh, it’s so gentle. ‘My bones hold a stillness’, does this in particular, the verb choice ‘hold’ denotes that perfect balance between the placidity juxtaposed with the uneasiness and uncomfortable tone of hopelessness. It’s beautiful. And beautifully heart breaking. And not only is each part of the poem eloquent, the poem as a whole work cohesively, my favourite feature being the ‘whiteness’ at the beginning and the ‘dark water’ at the end. It’s so simple yet implemented in a way that adds a more complex, downward-spiralling sense to it. I love this poem, and I love Sylvia Plath.