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To the Supportive Souls Who Have Kept Checking to See If I Have Updated My Blog

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Hello angelic individuals,      Thank you, amongst other things. Bye for now! Joke, except of course for the thank you bit – probably the amongst other things bit as well, I suppose. It has been absolutely heartwarming to see that although I have not posted on this blog for a while, you beautiful souls, whoever you are, have been checking on me. Perhaps you enjoy silently critiquing my writing. Or perhaps you enjoy my writing. Full stop. Either way, I am super touched to have realised that you care. After all, updates are definitely long overdue. So here I am!    If you are my Facebook friends, I am afraid there won’t be anything new here (I don’t mean here on my blog; by here I am referring to this post). As I highlighted in my Facebook post last year, I needed to stop blogging to prioritise my goal of writing to literary agents, following the advice of my friends who didn’t want me to burn out, to whom I was and still am truly grateful. They saved my life as it were. At the m
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‘Grammar’: An Acrostic-Anagrammatic Poem

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Gosh! Note that beginning a poem with that G-word I’ve just randomly and unjustly assigned to this one is a bit poetic-pathetic-grammatically, not quite incorrect. Imperfect? I mean just look at those absurd hyphenations hahaha! My mess is a bit of a life, isn’t it? Or should I absolutely stop that rubbish charade? Perhaps righting the wronged life by focusing on bribing mine would help. Just saying.   ‘Ashley needs to stop herself from turning into ashes,’ writes the red pen that is my right hand, upon detaching itself from me. Its ink shouts too loud, whizzing in my boiling ears as they’re nearly fried of heart, or perhaps art attack, no thanks to my wasted choice, grandiosely and gingerly called deflection, daughter of my time thief, agile beyond repair, so I need to prepare to face the music – explosive ears’ tellings-off, to be most exact.   Getting myself together used to be the ugliest words my ears have ever heard, but now in desperation, eac
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‘Lanternising the Burnt-Out Candle’: A Poem

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Teachers are like candles, extinguishing themselves to fight—oops—light their students’ paths, or so they say as sweat and blood, ignited by the fire of self-denial drip-drip-drip on and on and on and down in the form of candle wax singeing every inch of our collected, collective bones no longer humanly recognisable, shadowed by selfless shadows.   I am, not so, but too sorry to tell you Miss M, that unfortunately your candle wax has scorched my renewing, six-year-old skin the most. I’m rubbing one of the mottled patches now, the pain has hardened, been harnessed, intensified, just like – or probably very different to – the door you’ve used to bar yourself from self-love, the same one that has served you well into your relentless, hot-headed, cold-hearted wax-dripping candlehood, which I’ve now realised, perhaps too late, is born out of your burnt-out selflessness.   If I had known then what you’d been through, Miss M, I would have spoken to you
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