Tag: CreativeWritingBlog

DISGUSTED

That was the first feeling I felt after reading this man made a video apologising for sextin’ underaged boys.

I’m still wondering why his channel is still active? Why people are still following him?

Why he hasn’t been quote on quote ‘cancelled?’

Why he hasn’t been arrested?

Why he hasn’t been charged?

Why he hasn’t been punished for his crimes against young boys?

Why he hasn’t received custodial sentencing?

It’s like if you’re popular and your poppin’ you’re more likely than not, to have your criminal behaviour exonerated from the pop culture before authority does anything if anything.

CHILD ABUSE IS CHILD ABUSE

SEXUAL ABUSE IS SEXUAL ABUSE

A PAEDOPHILE IS A PAEDOPHILE

A CRIME IS A CRIME

A CHARGE IS A CHARGE

AN ARREST IS AN ARREST

That apology was dead upon exiting that mans mouth.

Salty Saturdays: HER – 13.02.2021

Once my hair fell way past my shoulders.

I never used to think much of it.

One night I stayed over at my aunt’s house.

One night she cut my hair down to 2 inches.

The next morning, she braided it in brown hair extensions and said nothing.

A few weeks later I discovered my hair had been cut.

In my thoughts, I skin her scalp back.

I cut off her forefinger and middle finger.

I clip the corners of her eyes, with a pair of toe scissors.

I sew brown extensions into her scalp and saturate it with oils.

One afternoon I saw her.

One afternoon I heard her horrible voice.

One afternoon I played the fiddle and watched her fall hard.

Her husband had cheated on her and took her money.

Her husband came back to her house.

Today my hair falls past my shoulders.

Today I type and I write my truth.

Today her sins caught up with her and she swirls around endlessly in a deep pool of salt.

Her eyes are burning, and her tongue has fizzled away.

My word, she’s a waste of life.

Salty Saturdays: Reception – 06.02.2021

Reception – 06.02.2021

The reception was about as weak as waiting in the rain at London Victoria coach station.

I thought receptions were about a celebration of some kind, whether that be life, death or like earlier, love? Maybe, I’m not smart enough to comprehend the meaning behind them.

On the menu was a traditional Sunday roast: Chicken, potatoes, carrots and gravy. Only, what we were served was dried out chicken breasts, rock hard potatoes, cold carrots and watered down gravy.

My cold plate was washed out with cold hard objects, they labelled fine dining.

I was seated at a table with a pursed lipped smoker and her ashy fingers. Fingers that kept accidentally brushing my exposed skin and a wrinkled mouth that said, ‘forgive me, love. Your skin is so soft, I use the finest lotions on my own skin, see!’ then reaching out and grasping my hand. I lose count at the third attempt.

Now, I love apple crumble and custard but the crumble was more like a chunky apple sauce, with a crumble dusting. Topped off with cheap, lumpy, piping hot, sugary custard. My stomach was growling and the drinks were tasteless.

The reception was a damp attempt to please the masses.