1.Ice cream and arguments, sunshine and tears. (April / May ’13)

Almost exactly two years ago this is where the current creative writing ball started rolling. The first lyric/poem to be taken down instead of mentally noted to be taken down later and of course forgotten before five minutes have past. I was at work in the midst of another meltdown borne or recent grief and too much stress. A rare moment of calm let this bubble to the surface, or at least the first line or two to begin with.

It was remembering a conversation with my mother the previous Christmas about a memory my sister had recently told her about. The events were not untypical but the perspective was new. I’d not often given a lot of thought to my sisters position as innocent bystander and forgotten victim. It’s too easy to become trapped in your own wallowing self pity about past pains and what you might have been without them. And what you are because of them.

My mother and I may had been the overt targets due to the word English on our birth certificates, but my sister was my fathers unseen collateral damage. With Scottish on her birth certificate she’d fall victim to friendly fire. Of course when you examine things more closely nationality has nothing to do with it. It’s the frustration of an immature individual who was, and remained till the end, no more than a spoilt child.

1. Ice cram and arguments, sunshine and tears.

Ice cream and arguments, sunshine and tears,
Daddy’s at home and a young girl fears,
With record temperatures inside and out,
The truth behind these doors the neighbours don’t realise,
Big brothers crying once more as mum shouts,

This façade of a marriage is all bruises and lies,
She’s too young to understand, too small to help,
Just an accident of birth saves her from a skelp,
With bigotries tight fist the spoilt man-childs all rage,
Daddy’s anguished wee Princess can only watch inside the cage.

© Jim Laing 2013.

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About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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