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love, joely
Confessions of a recovering plagiarist
In my previous post, I spoke briefly of my first failure of a blog, and it got me thinking… I owe a lot to Zoe Sugg, or should I say, my first book owes its entire plot to Girl Online. I hate to admit it, but when I tell people I've been writing stories since I was a child, you can guarantee none of it was original. In fact, from age thirteen to sixteen, I wrote 6 books with 300+ pages solely based on the original plot of CW's Arrow, starring Stephen Amell. My main character
5 days ago
The Pro(B)logue: An Ode to What Will Be...
I was twelve years old when I started my first ever blog, ‘Cup of Joe(ly)’. I had just read Zoe Sugg’s Girl Online and envisioned the next two weeks of my life full of handsome band members in flannel shirts and ripped jeans, all falling swiftly in love with me and my naturally beach wavy blonde hair always in an effortlessly assembled bun atop my head. Not to mention all the witty comebacks I had at the ready for my primary school bully when I’d roll up in a matt black limo
Nov 5
vivre comme tu rêves
for nana, how do you sum up a life? well, you could always start with the facts- she was a daughter with no complaint, a mother with sempiternal love, a wife with arms that could hold you so tight. she had the reddest of hair, locks of auburn tied back with pursed lips, and slender fingers studded with golden rings. her eyes had the softest haze, like chewed out stars, holding out her quiescent soul in
love, joely
5 days ago2 min read
baby doll
Your eyes edged with coastlines, Baby just hold me closer On this frosted night. Forget what the others say and just Follow my lead. Your skin like hot tarmac under my thumbs, Cracking and splitting open From those swarming vultures preying by cribs. Baby, I’m screaming, But they cut out my tongue, don’t you know? Next they’ll come for my head, But it all seems worth it in the end, If your face is all I see. Baby don’t listen to what they say about me. Your hand falls, The
love, joely
Nov 61 min read
Ouroboros
The spotlight is dead, Tickets expired, Stage stripped of its clothes, So why do you still put on an act? The battle is won, The trenches filled in, The crows full with flesh, So why do you still fight? The fire is roaring, The roof over our heads stands strong, The walls are getting drunk on our laughter, So why do you still look empty inside? The table is covered in food, A banquet for the ages, Gold gilded plates stacked like Egyptian pyramids, So why do you still say you
love, joely
Nov 61 min read
even a worm will turn?
i await the day i stop writing poems about you. wasted breathe on pages fated for the fire, those that will never make it beyond the bleeding ink and into the morning sun. pathetic how much time i gave to this army of minus one, never attending, always late, the only consistency you know is the bitter kind holding on to a single thread over a cliff- no water beneath, no safety net this time. sad how many sleepless nights i have roamed these halls like a madwoman and they’d wo
love, joely
Nov 61 min read
swan song
act one, scene one [it was morning] when i heard it. first, a shrill, a kind of cry, coming from the bowels of the lake, and it took me by surprise when i prepared for a creature to crawl from the banks, but instead, an angel gliding along the water, it’s feathers cutting deep wounds through the topaz surface. “why is such a beautiful creature full of so much pain?” i asked the lake, and to the sound of my voice the water rippled and squirmed, aching for touch, but i could
love, joely
Nov 62 min read
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