..dear reader..

I do really enjoy it but there is so much of the slacker in me. Poetry is enjoyable and therapeutic enough for me to stick at instead of abandoning when the going starts getting rough. It is a lovely medium for me to try and deal with some the commitment issues gracefully pointed out to me by a therapist. I thought it was a bit unfair I was only 13 and thought it pretty normal that I had commitment and personal space issues. I was proud of them they were only normal things about me. Still the problems with the physical details, the feeling that I'm betraying other people or worse my self by showing real blood, guts and cellulity thighs. But that's what poetry is and that's where the real closure is. So I can't patter a poem out in a few hours, big deal I've only started. The english needs work though, it has to be conscious and intentional. I have to know what I'm doing to learn how to stop. Tomorrow! Collecting for dark matter, first pathetic frustrating...

Still feeling too much like I've just had a wisdom tooth ripped out my head to sleep well but have it seems thanks to the pain and the fear it creates I have completed what will be, after I have gone over it again the first draft of a poem called 'War poem' by Daffodil. I am quite chuffed. It's over the line limit at the moment but it has to be or it will be well under by the time I've cut it down and there is probably too much in it, but it is about me, where I come from, where I'd like to go blah, blah blah a unique and if I may say so strong and beautiful voice. spiritualism, non western perception, resisting oppression, vulnerability, tough as fuckness.. The hills are alive..

'Daffodil' instead, challenging Scott by existing, by having a voice. Not attempting to engage her in her own language. What to put in it though? Going Native might fit I guess I just have to stop pissing about and do it! I am starting with 'I am born' tutor called remarkable. I will probably not be able to link it all properly but that's cool. If am going to use it for that competition it will be part over a larger sequence. That are about nothing else except me, me, me..

police and cauld tattie got 88%, not bad I agreed with most of the comments, there wasn't enough of an explanation as to where the expression 'cauld tattie' came from. Maybe should have waited for feedback before entering competition but there will be more... The five pages for another comp has been on my mind, I was thinking focusing it own Daffodil rites, and having them as a very short story of my life, starting with War poem and the quote from Scott. Who the hell is she to judge what lives 'could' have been lived. But it's very complicated trying to figure out how it could all work, I don't want it to be two fragmentary I want it to make sense. To challenge the idea that ritual abuse couldn't happen like survivors describe it because no one could survive that. Looking at the assessment calculator the grade 2 is pretty much in the bag but the first is maybe just out of reach, worth working for though. The next one is the final before the one that...

I will be okay, I will not open a wrist or become a junkie. My son will not be taken away from me because I have stopped giving him food and am having sex with truckers for vodka. I will not collapse in state of total and non-reversal mental breakdown. I might smoke a little more, eat a little less well and not sing too often. Until I remember something pretty that did not come from him. I will probably lie in bed a little stiller, a little longer another heterosexual celebrity couple. There is no need for the cynicism, what we had is too precious to undermine with hate. Let the love be, were are all human. And if losing him is what is takes for me to realise this then that is positive. But I'd like my promise back, scribbled but accurate and sane sometime around the mid 90's. I will find a women who makes every cell in my body glow, find a therapist who heals the shattered mirror with dynamic theory and careful deliberate practice. He will parent and I will parent an...

I have been to the dentist and had a tooth removed. She was lovely, the sort of dentists that reminds you to breath deep. Two injections, only one of them hurt a wee bit, completely numb, wisdom truth removed. So glad it was the very back, nothing like the words 'root canal not an option' to make a morning seems brighter. Maybe there wasn't so much need for all that painkillers. Glad I did though. Got loads of good ideas yesterday and last night but know I can't smoke for 24 hours... ..oh fuck.. nicotine chewing gum and yoghurt I'll be fine.. Johnny Deep is a poof..

I remember being forced to clench my teeth so hard together I blacked out. He killed a nerve in my tooth, gave me unnecessary procedures, made everything as painful as possible. Shrinks have suggested I try for compensation there is or was evidence. I remember telling another dentist about it all and him being really shocked, the hygienist cried. My parents or especially my mother always got that white blank look on her face when compensation was mentioned. Like it wasn't worth the bother, we were skint always skint. But right now see is down stairs, cleaning and keeping and eye on my toddler while I'm up here typing and taking painkillers. I guess no body is completely imperfect. Dentist appointment made for tomorrow. Give's me a day to prepare. I think he will probably just take it out. I am normally such a bleeder, think I will be finding some reserves I didn't know I had..

Funny the things that wake up parts of you that have been sleeping, dormant presumed extinct. The pain keeps reminding me of a slap, along the edge of the jaw the softness next to it. The same sickening in the stomach. I thought until that moment that I basically behaved like an injured animal all the time. Then I did that and I realised how well I was doing. The exact moment that I stopped doing so well.. I am committed to the love poem, the tooth ache I can live with.

Feeling not too bad at all, considering the toothache. Wee man ate his breakfast with his mum. Half a tantrum followed me "ok" when I refused too put the telly on. He was signing and laughing in his sleep last night, he is brill. Today I will leave the poems I think, to look at the war poem tomorrow, its hardly a joy to work on and leaves me feeling pretty trained and vulnerable sometimes. But it's empowering too, beautiful even. My words, my memories, my interpretations it's no longer a complete chore being me. I have in last few days been considering writing a love poem, for my wife who lives with someone else. But that's fair enough really as in the past I tended to forget all about our serious and long term relationship. My priority has often been staying alive, with as little bullying, torture and slavery as possible. It's kind of difficult to rebuild your relationship with someone who can't remember your name and has no interest in you beyon...

Posted of my first poems, there are good poems but not finished so I've got too much hope. Maybe I should of stuck with them a bit longer but I found an advert for a national that is free to enter. 5 pages, excluding Police and River, a month or so before the finish late with electronic submission. Works for me, especially now that War poem as eventually taken on some life. I dreamt of foxes last night, at least I think they were foxes some of them were a different colour. A rare sight to me but commonplace to others, skulking around on a street.

There is no doubt about the healing benefits of space, time and warmth. My war poem has started to take a shape, which has made me feel a bit queasy. My dad is not going to work today and has taken it upon himself to indulge a very rare inclination to clean stuff. Mostly outside my bedroom door where the stair gates clangs like fuck when its battered repeatedly off the wall. Good for him to show a bit of house pride, I might empty my ashtray in his honour. Are they 70% plus? They must be the last ones got 89% and rereading them they certainly weren't as well drafted or worked out. Maybe his expectations will be a lot higher though. I'm sure he won't keep me waiting long.. I'm so proud of my little big daffodil, yellow and proud. Stretching out as far as it can, even in a blizzard because it knows every spring is the only spring. With my insides/out.

Open I don't think I've dreamed his face in years but his voice is the first and last thing I hear. My son seems to know I'm battering words, welding, snapping, twisting until the lines between our brains and our eyes Are clear, open and busy. I love supernanny, superbikes with big fat engines I could never get my leg over I love baggy white shirts, skinny boy shaped girls with souls as old and as hard as mountain tops Men who swing there arms when they walk even when they are sedated, wounded and bleeding buggies with three wheels and big beautiful places to push them.

The sky kept falling again yesterday and it was bloody cold. The playgroup didn't happen but the poems, the healing and the commentary are going well. Looks like this may be one of those days when I stay encased in a giant fluffy and slightly stinky red dressing gown, drink too many cups of tea and leave the wee man with the telly. The period pains are strange, I knew they would be. Last time was when I came out to myself, the ache moved and took my mind with it. It was clear, so beautiful and so me I was gay, so sensual. Now I don't feel I should prohibiting any one from loving me on any other than the grounds than me not wanting them to. Gender, its simple once you figure out that it comes from the individual not from society. Two or three sizes do not fit all. Carol Ann Duffy has helped heaps with the assignment, helped me find the safety net. I can write, talk be part of other peoples lives. I'm not so distasteful that I should never type a word for eyes othe...

At last.. The words dance across the page, from where there born to where there needed. Another package from Amazon, brown paper ripped. My mother asks 'what's that.' I mutter 'can't remember...keeping it for later... Gay theory..' When she's in her bed and I'm alone I rip it open. Feeling creeped out at the address, written in office girl handwriting that could almost be my own. Their love, in a shinning and awkward way. I always understood their was no double meaning to the word 'gay', it means free, happy and the way this to others is a very queer way to be. It was a process of trial and error, trying to interpret the constant avalanche of truth and orders from every cell in your own and everyone else body's. Screaming from the sap in the trees, singing from the unborn. But our journey's are our own and to take someone down a road that isn't the one they chose is the biggest betrayal. RIP

fags = 1234 glasses of wine = 56 Since I came out some of my mail friends have been getting flirty, maybe they are responding to a new found comfortableness with sexiness in me. Or maybe it's just the age old horn men get far lesbianism, otherism. They hangover is varying of, don't have that same horrible listless, heart break I usually get after family parties. They didn't drive me completely mental, when the talk late on turned to how lucky we've been I wasn't even tempted to disagree remember all that screaming? They don't count the kids lost through crime and rituals. It's there way, not mine. Don't think I can finish Going Native in the next week, use poems. There as much less work because they feel like more fun to write, less pressure to join up a sentence with the one before. Still no cannabinoid assistance but should me soon maybe even today..

She smiled at me a lot, I suspect she's similarly inclined, ready starting to need the counselling again. I know though all the talking with no or few courses of action can make things feel worse. I find myself fantasising one last job, then I could let it all go. No help, public transport, no evidence like I used to, god I hope I can write about it one day and maybe not call it fiction. I might vote this time, probably lib dem like I did last time the thought that British politics might be moving beyond the two party system is almost exciting, or at least interesting. The curropted twisted civil servants will still be the bloody some though. The 'security' services will still be the same. Someone tried to tell me that state use of ritual abuse had stopped before I was born, she just looked stupid, I asked her to consider her sources, and her sources sources. Like there can ever be truth. Maybe as much of it came from the states as London and Edinburgh, it's har...

If the writing doesn't start in the morning it doesn't start. Today it's all about Kiera, reading Duffy has cracked open those parts of me I gave to you to protect, come home darling. Having any sort of relationship isn't all that possible when I'm disassociating, personality split in a hundred component parts none of them a real person. But I am, I don't have to control them any more, get them to fight the battles I can't. I am waking up to them, they are giving back what they took. The memories they bring with them will not be easy but I hate turning a blind eye, I can't get in touch with or understand positive truths until I understand the context better. It's exciting, feeling parts of my brain open up, shiny a light on the rottenness I had to internalise to survive. It is very good to be alive, to have a present and a future.. I love you..

Proper sleep last night, no nightmares or strange uncomfortable dreams about places and people I haven't seen in years. Still couldn't get out of bed though, not until the little one starts shouting 'MUM'.. Still waiting to hear from the housing, it's time I started leading my own life, heading my own small but lovely family. So exciting, having my own washing machine, my own kitchen, my own livingroom, buses, gay people, people! I'm a simple thing really..

Thank fuck my tutor gave me an extension. I'm not gettin very far with the life writing assignment. It could be lovely, a magical intertwining of a stunning and enlightening physical setting with traumatic memories with melds seamlessly together to a tale of hope in adversity, a celebration of the diversity of life and the miraculous capabilities too heal. At the moment it's a jumbled mess, my notes are all over the place and I can't focus for any longer than the time it takes to smoke a cigarette. It's been one of those awkward days, head full of pain, anger and bitterness, even the birdsong is irritating. So glad I found Lynn's page though, to be back in awe at the power of words to make the uncomprehensible comprehensible. Almost anything can be written down in black and white, burning of a pea soup smog into a gently evaporating low lying mist. I was thinking about the compensation claim last night, as well the mess of my relationships at school (how could ...