Miss More

Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

Go Check Out My Creative Writing Blog… Like NOW.

In Let's Talk About It on 14/02/2017 at 8:10 PM

Hey it’s me again after all this time.

So much has happened since I closed curtains on this blog, I grew up, I’m now at uni, I built up another blog which I eventually closed curtains on as well and I published my first ever poetry anthology called Blue Raptures  (which you can buy now by the way) it can only be described as a twisted trip through my mind.

I know I don’t live here anymore, but this is my baby, I check on this blog often and I’m always shocked that people are still reading the words of my teenage self, so thank you for that. Basically I’m just here to tell you to come through to my new new blog called marriedtotheink . No I don’t do any ranting on that bad boy, I’m a creative blogger now. I post poems and I let people in on the mind of wordsmith, I’m gonna start doing book reviews real soon and just track my growth as a creative. So let me see you over there, don’t be shy and don’t forget to tell me you came from MISSMORETALKS.

Until we meet again, Miss More



Fluent Beauty | A Poem

In A Little Bit Of Poetry on 22/06/2014 at 12:51 AM

I’ve been writing about this woman lately. I think she’s a prostitute, the high class kind of prostitute. The kind of woman that  those rich dudes trip on thin air over. Or maybe she’s not a prostitute, maybe she just uses her allure to get what she wants and there is nothing wrong with that.

She’s beautiful. She’s dangerous. She’s toxic.

I don’t know her name. All I know is that she’s fluent.


Fluent Beauty 

She’s a fluent beauty

Symmetry and seduction

Native to nightfall

Velvet her voice

Luxury her lips

Toxic her tender toxic

Savage is her love

As it simmers through the senile night

Luring you to new heights

She’s a cold blooded delight

picture wee small hours lonely woman

As you can tell, I am currently in a relationship with alliteration.

Until we meet again, Miss More.

Phoenix | A Poem

In A Little Bit Of Poetry on 21/05/2014 at 8:27 AM

Wondering what it would be like to be reborn in fire and smoke. Imagine the beauty, the freedom, the spectacle. I guess this poem is me showing my desire to be out of this world. Literary.



This life

How it suffocates

Turning breath to ashes

Time stops

And I am born again

A Phoenix

Rising from the ashes

When I fall

Don’t bury me

Burn me into ashes

Set me free

Bind me to the wind



Until we meet again, Miss More.


In A Little Bit Of Poetry on 09/05/2014 at 2:54 PM

“In the beginning it was perfect. Until the day it wasn’t.”

Domestic violence is something else that fascinates me. Why? I don’t know. I guess there’s something about love defined with violence that piques my interest. I remember very well that when I was about sixteen me and one of my good friends did manage to write a poem about domestic violence between us, it was called “STOP”, I only remember the first two lines.

Stop, with the terror and the violence

Stop, for I am slowly drowning in silence

This is for the girl trapped in a twisted dimension of love.




You wake up in a new day but your heart harbors old pain.

Quietly you drown in his twisted version of love. In the beginning it was perfect.

Red was the fire, the passion, the heat, of your love.

You never did like red. You preferred the neutral colours that helped you blend into the background; beige, ivory, grey, black. And then he happened. He rejuvenated you. He bought that poor girl plagued with insecurity out of the shadows and made her a woman in the sunshine. He was your sunshine. Happily, you basked.

Love is blind and unconditional. Until conditions change.

In the beginning it was perfect. Until the day it wasn’t.

Until the day he butchered your world and allowed his true colours to burst through. Until the day you realised that he put you on a pedestal only to tear down. Red was the colour of your blood as it gashed from the decorative lines on your leg. Purple are the pretty bruises now patterned on your back. Salty are the tears that burn your cheeks.

Salty are the tears that burn your soul.

You hate the mirror because it insists on showing you the pathetic creature that you have become.

Red is the colour of your love. In red you suffocate, watching your life slowly sink into nothing.

You wake up in a new day but your heart harbours old pain.


If this is you, know that you have the power to end it, the strength is somewhere within you, I need you to grab it as if it’s the edge of a cliff.

Until we meet again, Miss More.

Blue Living | A Poem

In A Little Bit Of Poetry on 01/05/2014 at 6:57 PM

This is dedicated to all those who have lost themselves, within themselves. I dare you break free. “Life is one big road with lots of signs, so when you riding through the ruts, don’t you complicate your mind. . . Wake up and live now!”


Blue Living

This is blue living

Trying to find my purpose

A reason

I am out of luck

Out of bounds

Out of touch

Long out of time

Free falling

In outer space

Trying to steady my jagged breath.



Until we meet again, Miss More.

Lady of Night | A Poem

In A Little Bit Of Poetry on 31/03/2014 at 1:21 PM

I honestly have a fascination with the seedy world of street walking. I don’t know what is is about that exchange that grabs my interest. One of these days I will blog about it but until then, I leave you with this. “Lady of Night” is dedicated to the girl who was forced into this life, the girl who drowns in the scorching lights, the girl that men shun in broad daylight but worship under the thick cover of night, the tragedy, the victim, the survivor.  The girl who knows nothing but bleakness, don’t write her off as dirt on the side of the road before you know where she’s coming from.


Lady of Night

Too stubborn to die

Too fractured to live

I roam the night


I am broken

I barely exist

Kissed by calamity

I embrace vices


I am bolted

In this hazy reality

Trapped in a loop of

Fast money, fast highs, fast life

I run fast

Clad in lace

Kissed by scorching lights

Lost lady of night



To the moralist prostitution does not consist so much in the fact that the woman sells her body, but rather that she sells it out of wedlock.

EMMA GOLDMAN, Anarchism and Other Essays

Love, Miss More

Blues | A Poem

In A Little Bit Of Poetry on 23/02/2014 at 3:02 PM


Lonely in a group of four

Six, eight, ten

A million

Table for one

I’ll take dessert to go  and

Sit in my corner

Tapping my feet to the silence

This is life

Confiding to the looking-glass

Waiting for the blues to pass


Until we meet again, Miss More

We Fly | A Poem

In A Little Bit Of Poetry on 18/11/2013 at 12:40 PM

We Fly

Under the watchful gaze of the sun

We Fly

With our feet on the ground

Air in our lungs

Hands spread out for wings and the sound of our laughter for fuel

Under the watchful gaze of the sun

Where many have died

We live


Appreciate your life before you no longer possess it. Love, Miss More.

I said – A Poem

In A Little Bit Of Poetry on 25/07/2013 at 9:58 PM

I Said

Breathe, he said

Grab the air when it comes your way

And let it be for me

He who keeps the cold at bay and brightens days.

Look me in the eye, I said

The glazed windows of my soul

My tongue the bolted door

A door wide open is useless in this world

But windows; I can allow a crack

So I dare you look me in the eye

Let’s see if you drown in the dark.

2013, yours truly

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