Creative Writing

Our creativity is constantly growing, as will this part of the website.

My Story

Yeah my story it ain't important to no one.
People make me feel insecure like a bum.
I feel like i aint even there.
I've got all this fear locked up inside there aint no passages to take.
Theres all these decisions but i can't decide.
I feel all this pain its like plaing a game.
But in this came there is no way to get out.
There's no escape i can't control it.
I just keep on keep on moving around in life.
The more i keep moving i figure more and more about my life.
The more i keep moving around in life.
The more i keep moving i figure more and more about my life.
It's no more like a game my feelings are going insane.
But now my life is going to change.
Because im not going to give up on this game.
Im going to fight and fight until i find the right door.
I don't care if its mid night im just going to fight fight fight.
Now im nearly home ive made all the right decisionsso far.
Not long to go.
Ant

I am the God of slippery words

I am the God of slippery words,
making your eyes bathe in cold ashed
Long the heat of want has left you,
once eager to read and swallow books whole
by torchlight,
Under cavernous covers
pulled tight around you.
Listening for foot fall
ready to hide your curiosity
to be sacrificed on an altar of disbelief
40 years ago
fear, awakening you with icewater on bare flesh

Would you deem me as unviable?
my genes a gift or sorrow.
dancing on words that cry out 'stone', 'stone'
until the dis-linguist bell rings.
Always guilty in your trial by ordeal,
hollow on smooth marble polished by lies.
While you place a coaled spot in my hand,
waiting full for fortune on my own treasure island.
Jonathan Adams 2004

A long time a ago I drew a picture

A long time ago I drew a picture. At the time when school walls were plain and clean, bare except for the work of the favourites, best and most able pupils.

I drew a picture of a Tudor street, side on, working very hard on the houses each complete with beams and slated roofs. Each brick and slate were drawn in detail in grown up pencil not in crayon. Drawn with shade and shadow, not copied but pulled from my imagination. I was very proud of that picture, a passport to the wall! Not just any wall, but the best place on a wall, by the school entrance. A passport to recognition that I could do work that was worthwhile. A passport to possible acceptance by the others. It would be seen three times a day by all my school when they walked to the hall. Each morning before assembly, at lunchtime and on their way home.

The class knew I had a place reserved there. They were all jealous of the picture and that none of the favourites were better. All I had to do was keep it safe. All I had to do was take it down at the special time, allotted time to have it hung.

I was very nervous at asking to have my work put there, I was always the last to have my work returned always covered in red, but I went and offered it up to the teacher. Aghast I was told I needed to write my name and picture subject at the bottom of the page so I sat and tried. I couldn’t spell my name let alone Tudor but did my best, afraid of more humiliation to ask for help and offered it up once more. All I received was the usual torrent of abuse as to how ‘stupid’ I was and that ‘I had spoilt it’ and how now it was only fit for the bin. Never the special place on the wall.

Of course it was destroyed and binned, in front of the class, complete humiliation. I never drew again at that school and the feelings have never left me. I still feel the fear handing over work to publishers even though I have had illustration in quite a few books. It’s hard to draw ‘special’ or have things shown. One vicious teacher who made it his job to rip me up daily as well beat all the self-esteem I ever had out of me at school. His classroom is now a library and my books sit on the shelves. It was 25 years later I found out I was dyslexic, not stupid and useless as I was often told. Its still very hard but I realise the depression, low self esteem and fears I suffer with stem from the abuse I suffered at school and not from my genetic gift.

That picture is very precious to me and although it was destroyed I can still see it as I sit and write. Its still very hard but………
Jon Adams

Brother in Trouble

Yeah my little brother, doin his bit, got all this pain he just wants to split
His heads going bang against the wall, his getting told off but he doesn't know what for.
He wants to go home to his real home with his mummy and daddy and have a real life.
Whilst all these people are asking him things. All he can see is all there gold rings, so he speaks to them because he thinks there rich but i know in the end there gonna chuck him in a ditch.
But im not gonna let that happen as im gonna do all the clashing and i dont mean fighting physically i mean fighting verbally.
Im not gonna let them treat him like a dog.
Cause when we walk away they will be the ones poor all on their own.
Ant

No Title

People said that I'd never do a thing, but I proved them very wrong!
Never walk, never talk, all I'd ever do is breathe.
But I sang my own song!
Done tv, done radio, even done the news,
Spreading the word of how disabled people are all on their own cruise.
A cruise to be known as suite capable,
Not just a pile of useless dust,
What they need to be known as decent people, this is a definite must.

Betrayal Fish in clear trout stream

Sit still!
Don't catch his eye!
Stay invisible in the clear trout stream.
Even if you think, he will see you.
Stare intently,
reading the patterns on the dull wooden desk,
as the lines flow and form,
constantly morphing.
Absorbing?
taking all your concentration
away from the departing words,
that run, scared all over your pages
of handrawn neural camouflage.
Wear your bullet proof jacket
with the heart-shaped whole!
Snared?
cornered escapegoat!
Released into your desert playground
with each child's burdens on your back.
Sit still, he will catch you!
See his tall thin voice
blood red stare, cut though the darkness
like a searchlight!
Transfixing you in its pungent beam.
Night frighter on your tail!
my fault,
normal fault
ready to separate me with a final movement.
Waiting to bring you down.
Blue cold icelight
running in flight through my veins. Inevitable
his flak shaped anger subtly sharpened by passive words
arc Baghdad style towards me.
Tantalus sacrificed, by books
flung in front of favourite fancies?
Turning
Laughing,
issuing forth from a bronze nebuccanesser
that tells me to eat grass?
Look down!
Eat grass
Eat grass, as I watch
the five fingered word from across the comforting wall.
Unseen pictures,
telling me to rest, wait, be still.
Only another thirty years of hushed stupidity,
as you are the silenced lamb
who dies each year on grounddown day.

© Jonathan Adams 2000