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This was written after hearing someone talk about being held in dark places but always pushing to get to the light. It was also a reflection of my own feelings as I went through a tough period of an invisible illness. Darkness hangs over me Not always an enemy It walks beside me for years Knowing my footsteps My fears My rhythms But then again Sometimes it turns on me It locks me in windowless rooms Hallways that circle back on themselves Paths with walls too high to climb

This poem was written as I found myself awake in hours meant for sleep. It is my attempt to capture that feeling of the strange comfort of darkness, the confusion of tired senses and mysteries that breathe in the shadows Quiet dreams in a sleepless city How can that be true? Can you dream when there’s no sleep? Of course…. they’re called daydreams But here It is not without sleep For sleep is everywhere No matter the noise Or The silence Neon lights that stutter in the

After a discussion, I was thinking about freedom and what it means, the phrase 'The freedom of your mind is what liberates you' popped into my head so I decided to write a song In a room that has no windows thinking the world was small But a spark rose up within you saying you must break the wall You do not need permission to unlock doors inside Take that step and move forward that’s what you must decide So rise up and redefine everything you thought you knew Think hard think

Living with Ménière’s disease means living with a world that can tilt, spin, roar, or collapse without warning. It’s an invisible illness, one that hides behind ordinary moments and arrives like a storm no one else can see. I wrote a poem titled, When the Room Lets Go, about this experience and you can find it in an earlier post on this site. Many people living with Meniere’s struggle with staying positive. It is incredibly difficult because when an attack hits, fear and drea

(In 3 Movements) I have been thinking about creating a piece that relates to the title of my site. I finally came up with something that is written over three movements. I hope you enjoy. Movement I My mind is a quiet archive of unfinished lines and verses ideas that grew in the dark waiting for me to return Melodies that started to rise then fell back into the quiet but still humming there like a memory of sound Poems that broke off mid breath but kept breathing small roots

Sitting quietly with a book the room breathing softly around me A fullness rises in my ears a warning I know too well Oh no here it comes A sudden rush a whoosh that tears through the stillness like a tornado splitting the air open Vertigo unfurls and my eyes lose their place in the world everything spins a thousand miles an hour I feel myself perched at the edge of a cliff waiting for gravity to make its choice Nausea climbs and I try to stand try to reach the bathroom holdi

After almost six months of creativity, I was thinking about how I previously struggled with my writing. I came up with this Sitting quietly in a room A book full of ideas A thousand kingdoms trapped in ink Poems, songs and stories Legends, fables and facts Where do I start? Have I got the skill? Is my turn of phrase good enough? Doubt lingers and takes hold Sapping the energy out of every bright idea Fight Challenge Every negative thought Finally The writing starts Pages crum

Alan Hewitson Today I woke up to news that I did not want to accept. A sentence that should not have been spoken for years to come. It hit me hard. My brain fogged over. My heart felt like it was splitting in two. One of my dearest friends had departed. No illness, no warning just a sudden parting that made my world tilt. After that call, my mind began replaying our times gone by, especially our first real encounter. It rose to the surface immediately, as if my memory knew ex

Isso foi escrito como uma peça curta baseada em uma discussão na sala de aula ATO I – Abertura do Debate Cenário: Sala de aula moderna em uma escola pública de São Paulo. Há um cartaz na parede com os dizeres. Heróis ou Colonizadores? Ecos do Brasil Colonial. Cadeiras em semicírculo. Um projetor está ligado, exibindo imagens de mapas coloniais. Luz: Clara, ambiente de dia. Sons suaves de alunos conversando ao fundo. Professor Silva (Ergue a voz com calma e autoridade) Bom dia

This was written as a short play around a classroom discussion ACT I – Opening the Debate Setting: A modern classroom in a public school in São Paulo. A poster on the wall reads: Heroes or Colonizers? Echoes of Colonial Brazil, Chairs arranged in a semicircle. A projector displays images of colonial maps. Lighting: Bright, daytime atmosphere. Soft background sounds of students chatting. Professor Silva(Raises his voice calmly and with authority)Good morning, class. Today we’l

Oh, you up there looking down on me What do you see Do you think I look back at you In awe In fear No I look at you in pity I’ll tell you why You see You built walls To keep me out But instead They keep you in Trapped inside that bubble Where you were taught to look down Even before you could look around We live under the same sky Breathe the same air We may seem different creatures But Our blood is the same Hearts beat the same rhythm Even if out of sync One day You may need

From the cobbled streets of Edinburgh town To Sao Paulo nights where the stars fall down I carry two skies in the beat of my chest One wild with wind, one warm with zest And every time I cross that ocean wide I feel both places pulling at my stride Let the pipes start calling through the samba sway Let the drums keep rolling like a Highland day Raise the rhythm high, let the two worlds run Samba in the Highlands, pipes in the sun Two hearts dancing, beating as one Samba in th

Flowing curves A waist cinched tight Along the slender neck Silver veins taut with held breath Air is heavy and trapped In the hollow of her chest Until Your hands, unable to resist Trace the smooth grain Sounds awaken in the resonance A beautiful voice finally exhales The room fills with a ringing copper light As she finally tells you her name Do you know who she is?

I thought coming back to Edinburgh would feel like slipping into a familiar coat, worn, warm, and perfectly mine. Instead, I landed and felt something I never expected, a quiet ache to return to São Paulo. Edinburgh is not just where I grew up, it is where my identity started to be shaped. My parents played a big role in teaching me life skills from an early age, a resilience that I was able to build on as I grew. My father, unable to work due to health issues, and my mother,

After a comment was left on my blog 'What is Poetry" I was inspired to write this. I stare at the blank page Jot down a few scribbles Nothing makes sense Medication Numbed my inspiration Left the words lying flat Without breath But there is something I know it Is it my poem hiding behind a closed door Like a metaphor tapping But unable to enter Medication It was only an anchor through the hard times Steadying me Holding me Keeping me still Those months with fragments Finally

The Mirrored Room Silence filled the old mansion, broken only by the ticking of an ancient clock. No one had wound it in years, yet it chimed once, as if waking from a long sleep. Rowena crept through the house with bare feet and a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. It was a winter's night and, with no fires lit, her breath formed pale clouds in the cold air. She climbed the creaking stairs. In her hand she held a key she had found hidden in the hem of her dead mother's dres

It was really a pleasant autumn afternoon here in São Paulo today, and as I had already been out for my walk this morning, I decided to go down into the grounds of the condominium. In this light with its soft golden hue, maybe I might write something, a poem or some notes for corrections on a story I am writing. The best place to catch the sunshine was next to the area that is used for tennis, ball games, or other activities. A group of boys chased footballs across the synthe

If your spirit were a sound to play Which single note would lead the way Are you the A , the silver light That tunes the room and sets it right Or B , the tension on the wire A restless spark of high desire Perhaps the C , the anchor’s weight That keeps the scale and spirit straight Are you D-minor’s velvet ache The pause the busy world must take Or E , the pivot of the heart Who shifts the mood before we start The sharp F mystery, dark and rare A jagged beauty in the air T

That look in your eyes What can I say? The beauty and grace As you wander off Looking back over your shoulder That look again Almost out of sight I wave You don’t, you can’t I think of all the good times The love shared The fun A closeness never shaken The trust between us Even when stepping into the unknown You answer my calls and demands With only the occasional Questioning look When I am gone Patiently you wait You treat every return As if we have been apart for an age The

After my usual walk through the quiet streets around the condominium here in São Paulo, I finally turned to the small boxes and folders I’d brought from Edinburgh almost a year ago. They’d been waiting patiently in a corner, holding fragments of a former life. What should have been a quick 30–40 minute tidy became hours, as these things always do. You open a box and suddenly you’re not sorting, you’re travelling. Every scrap of paper demands to be read, every photograph insis