Fuck It

I wrote this poem, with tears in my eyes, for the words are real and raw. I’ve always struggled to believe in myself and especially my writing. But it seems I’ve turned a point in my life now and there’s no going back. I’m realising that I can write. And am going to, no matter what. So ‘fuck it’ can be my mantra. Because I’m moving out of my comfy home and into the wild 😜

Thanks to my dear friend Cassie for the mantra 💗




Imagine, one morning waking at dawn. The colours of yellow and burnt orange warm your skin. You open your eyes and search your surrounds, everything that once was, gone. Your world blank. Your loved ones vanished, your career and professional life irrelevant in a new world. Your home a distant memory. It is just you and things you own. Emptiness grips your throat and your breath laboured. You’re left cold.

Everything that was important to you yesterday, replaced by times rapid clock. How do you move out forward?
In this life, we’re constantly thriving to achieve financial success. Chasing materials to fill a deep void. Masking our sadness with bigger and better products.

But what happens when you awaken; from this life created? Will you look back and love the things you have brought? Or will you remember the people who travelled beside you? Moved through the thick hours of time, and supported you with love, and action.

As time ticks by, remember it is only fleeting, that one day the hands will stop, will you be left with all your possessions or will you choose love?


Image courtesy of http://aracelirldeloleoalcincel.blogspot.com/2016/08/richard-avedonel-hombre-que-revoluciono.html

To Wear Our Scars?


There is a scar
that covers about three inches of skin
on soft tissue,
just above your breast,
it runs a jagged line
it reminds me of a flower vine
creeping up your neck,
faded in time
a silver tattoo left,

Does it feel different on the tongue?
I run my lips across the serrated point
Quickening with every lick,
Each mark holds a depth untold
I feel a beating pulse within –
more than just a hollow organ;
a heart of its own
flowing in feelings.

This scar that is visible
carried upon your chest
weighing too heavy
for you to undress
like a photograph –
a moment never forgotten.
A permanent welt.
A visible form.

If the scar wasn’t there to remind you?
Could you forget it?


It’s been on my mind –the idea of a scar. We all have scars. Some are visible, some hidden and those buried so deeply, that we are ourselves are shocked to find they are there.

Does wearing our scars in different ways affect our-self?
Do we carry them for everyone to see?
Or hide them so deeply, that we forgot them, for a time.

Because even if we bury our burdens, they have a way of resurfacing.
Is it better to wear our scars?



A Million Tiny Little Pieces + One 

I feel like my life is just a million tiny little pieces, plus one. Shattered. Broken, trying to fit back together. My heart hurts and I’m trying fantically to find my purpose. My worth and belief in myself is cutting to the core and I’m searching in panic for answers which never come. ‘A massive day at work, and a rejection email for a poetry journal, and relentless hard work, all rolled into one.’




Night Out With The Girls


Tonight, I’m off to dinner, with the girls. I don’t get to go out much because I have a toddler! So I’m really looking forward to dressing up, and having a few wines and some yummy dinner. Hope your night, morning, or afternoon is wonderful, where ever you may be!

Jen xxx


Ink and Quill


Incredible photography by Pheasant Fashion Photography. megankelly.org

This is my passion,
The ache and urge,
For my words,
To spill forth,
My sense,
My deepest heartfelt,
My thoughts conveyed,
Quill, a feathery plume,
Etched and engraved,
Ink drips,
Tints and stains the page,
Fragile, erratic and torn,
I breathe and write on.

What are we afraid of? 

On my morning run, passing people, I would say hello. The passes by would look at me as if I was going to rob them. I thought they were going to jump into the bushes; like I gave them a fight. Now I’m not a very scary person. I’m only quite small. It was early morning, and I did roll out of bed, and out the door. But hey I had sunglasses on. It just amazes me, how people are so closed off in our world. What are we afraid of?

It was a beautiful morning on the lake


It was a beautiful morning on the lake


Why Do You Write?

Why do you write?


I get a lot of mixed reactions when I say I’m a writer and I actually find it really hard to say it. I’m not sure if I find it so hard to say, because I myself don’t really believe that I am a writer or I’m worried about speaking about my manuscript.

When people ask me, ‘What do you do?’

I want to say, ‘A great many things.’ Because it’s true. I don’t feel like I’m limited to one particular thing. I feel like my answer defines me, but I don’t want to be defined by my career or work choices. I am a writer, I am a university student, I am a mum, I am an childhood educator, but yet I am so much more than that.

Are you published and why do you like writing is a question I get all the time.

I’m not published, but I will be and why I write, well, there is a great many reasons why I write.

We Forget Who We Are


I know sometimes, we feel like everything is beyond our control, and yes perhaps somethings are, but we have the choice to stay positive. To look beyond the material world and trust in ourselves. Everything will fall into place, just as it is meant to be.
Sometimes in life, we begin to question are worth, our meaning, and our life purpose. We get so caught up in what we should be, we forget who we are.
The little things that make us, us. The kindness in our hearts, the thoughtfulness in our ways, our family, our friends, and the way we make them feel. The happiness we bring to the world.
I believe that we as people, with compassion, understanding and acceptance is fundamentally more important than anything else. More important then what car we drive, how big our house is, our wages, our social status, our careers.
What makes us, us, far outweighs what we do or earn for a living. WE CANNOT BE DEFINED BY THIS.