Cee Arr
(She/Her)
That chick with the bird logo. Sexually Fluid/Queer. She/Her. Cymraes. Bookish rebel, writer, poet; answering the Awen's call. Blogs @ Dora Reads
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Articles by Cee Arr
Once A Year (If You Were To Measure Time In Such A Way)
Once A Year (If You Were To Measure Time In Such A Way) Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Resource Database on Unsplash They always met at night. Once a year, a nocturnal rendez-vous. Once a year — if you were to measure time in such a way. The date itself did not matter. The bridge was nothing special — a few planks of wood over a little stream, a stream that whispered as it wound its way through the cool woodland.
at this point
at this point Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Raychel Sanner on Unsplash at this point i think i’m being held up by the strength of the chair and the table alone i am so so tired today and outside is all wet and grey, making the world seem sleepy sleepy sleepy all day long Author’s Note: Micropoetry is very short. I personally like that it’s very short — no words are wasted around here! …But the M-site’s algorithm does not agree with me.
The Seams Beneath
The Seams Beneath Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Anastasia R. on Unsplash Crack in the pavement — green moss and worn edges — the sense of the world coming apart at the seams, it reveals something dark beneath the concrete Author’s Note: …wasn’t sure whether to put a warning on this or not — like, it’s creepy, but it’s not that creepy, y’know?
Still Trying To Carry Your Grief (As Well As Mine)
Still Trying To Carry Your Grief (As Well As Mine) Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Riccardo Mion on Unsplash Warning: grief — which you probably got from the title. Don’t matter that I know better — I’m still tryna help you carry your grief — even though mine’s already killing me — cos I can’t take seein’ you in this much pain Author’s Note: Micropoetry is very short, and sadly the almighty M-site algorithm prioritises read-time, and punishes a lack of it.
Aberfan
Aberfan Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by David Tomaseti on Unsplash Warning: this poem is in memory of an industrial disaster which killed 116 children and 28 adults. See author’s note (below) for more details. The heart was hollowed from the land You left the guts to choke us. A mountain fell on innocent heads. You faced no prosecution. Our children meant nothing to you. Just a poor man’s son, a poor man’s daughter.
Stephen King’s IT Is F**ked Up
Stephen King’s IT Is F**ked Up …which probably isn’t that surprising. Graphic: author’s own, made with Canva Warning: this post contains discussions of drugs and addiction, and brief references to one of the most notorious scenes in IT (the child sex scene.) Stephen King — or so the meme goes — did not write Stephen King’s IT — he CO-wrote it, alongside IT’s primary author: COCAINE. And before I read IT, I figured that the meme was because of the sewer clown — because, well, sewer clown.
3am Again
3am Again Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Greta Bartolini on Unsplash Warning: existential dread — because I’m powerless to resist it, apparently. You say you’re fine… and then you find yourself… at 3am googling ‘the meaning of life’… again Author’s Note: Micropoetry is super-duper short, and the algorithm focusses on read-time and punishes a lack of it (because Capitalism).
Readers Don’t Owe You Engagement
Readers Don’t Owe You Engagement …sorry to burst your bubble, but actually no-one owes you a damned thing Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Farzan Lelinwalla on Unsplash Some people are so entitled… Look, it’s no secret that writers like it when people engage with their pieces — whether that’s by sharing and commenting, or, if you’re here on the M-site, by highlighting, clapping, etc. etc.
You Forgot My Birthday Again
You Forgot My Birthday Again Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by James Kovin on Unsplash You forgot my birthday again, and I don’t care any more ( — well, maybe a little;) it’s still so strange to me that you could throw away our friendship without so much as an explanation I guess you were never the person I thought you were — the sister-friend I thought I knew would never be so callous Author’s Note: Don’t mind me, just sorting through some feelings from a certain...
there’s a time to switch things off, shut things down, log off
there’s a time to switch things off, shut things down, log off it’s ok to not be a productivity machine Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Dima Shishkov on Unsplash it’s ok you can say ‘that’s enough for today’ and let it be. you can let yourself not finish the task list. you can’t fit everything into a day — that’s just not how life works. and that is a-ok. no need for guilt, you are not a productivity machine.
Throw The Casket To Sea
Throw The Casket To Sea Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Jouwen Wang on Unsplash Warning: mild horror/dark elements Put my heart in a box is it true? is it true? throw the casket to sea just like you, just like you Author’s Note: …I don’t know. It was going round and round in my head so here, have a creepy little poem! (Lol.) Micropoetry is super-duper short and we poor poets are not usually not favoured by the M-site’s algorithm, because said algo.
Ink-Rooted Blood
Ink-Rooted Blood Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Europeana on Unsplash Warning: horror elements, mild blood imagery Ink-rooted blood in the mouths of those who scream in dark clouds of bees that sting the tongues of those who bleed in ink and dead skin Author’s Note: My brain: *writes this* Me: … Me: … Me: …what the hell?
Not Quite Dark
Not Quite Dark Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Shyam on Unsplash The sun went down a while ago but it’s still not quite dark out there — the sky is a purple-grey not quite letting go of the day and that’s okay — maybe it’s not time to put it a-way just yet — an encore after the curtain call Author’s Note: Micropoetry is very short, and the M-site’s algorithms prioritise read-time and punish a lack of it, so I’d be very grateful if you could hang around on the page for...
Who Decides What Are Flowers And What Are Weeds?
Who Decides What Are Flowers And What Are Weeds? …This got a little off-track, not gonna lie Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by TOMOKO UJI on Unsplash Who decides what are flowers and what are weeds? Aren’t weeds just wild flowers, after all? At least, that’s the case in my garden. Flowers I can’t even name crop-up from everywhere — the woods are within touching-distance, after all. Although a five-minute walk is required to find the not-well-tended footpath.
I’m Gonna Make $100 Writing, In One Month
…Just watch me. (And maybe wish me luck!) Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Nik on Unsplash I don’t wanna rain on anyone’s beliefs, but to me, manifesting is just another brand of snake-oil. If the universe, (or any casual, causal, deity of your choice,) were actually listening to me, then things in this messed-up world would be a lot different.
Did You Think It Was A Lie?
Did You Think It Was A Lie? Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Mohammad Hoseini Rad on Unsplash Warning: …I don’t know, it’s nebulously dark (lol.) When you said it would be fine did you think it was a lie or did you truly believe that we could make it out alive?
You Called Me An Inspiration…
You Called Me An Inspiration… Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Hamid Tajik on Unsplash Warning: mental health problems (inc. Anxiety,) and trauma You called me an inspiration, do you remember? And that’s the furthest thing from what I feel — no matter how hard I work, nothing seems to get any better — it only seems to get worse. You called me an inspiration, but today I couldn’t go to the supermarket because there are people there.
Undead Algorithms
Undead Algorithms Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Kirill Dice on Unsplash Dreamers, are you out there still? Or did the code write you out of the equation? Tell me, do we still have room for hope in hearts that sit heavy, clogged with the poisons of this world’s harsh fangs. Is there any room out there for hope for love for happiness?
Pinprick (holding on to the light)
Pinprick (holding on to the light) Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by dominik hofbauer on Unsplash Holding on to the light — just a pinprick in the distance, right? Holding on to the dawn — tomorrow’s always on its way, or so they say. (Sometimes I wanna tear the heart outta the world make it burn make it churn a little Can’t I be the bad guy for once? But it would hurt me worst of all.) Holding on to the light — just a pinprick in the distance, right?
Trapped (we’re all sick from the ride)
Trapped (we’re all sick from the ride) Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Robynne O on Unsplash Warning: existential dread — a game the whole species can play! A swirling world that makes the population nauseous, — (when does a hate-watch become just watching?) It was hard enough to be human, before they added all the expansion packs — and now we’re all just sick from the ride, vertigo never ends don’t pretend that we ever planned for this to be the eventuality of this...
Destiny Just-Missed
Destiny Just-Missed Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Larisa Birta on Unsplash There’s a version of ourselves that never got to exist; destiny just-missed stuck in the rear-view mirror There’s a road we never took and a home that’s not our own and a life we never had but might have done (we might have done) We’re mourning the possibilities — a stolen faded dream, that always sunny could-have-been — but we can’t shake the feeling that the coin-flip that our lives turned...
We Painted The Wallpaper
#WritingPrompt: what would you consider to be a “paint over” solution? What do you think this means? We Painted The Wallpaper Sometimes comfort is an uncomfortable thing. Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by RhondaK Native Florida Folk Artist on Unsplash The wallpaper in my grandparents house had been painted over — again and again. As they got older, we took over the task.
The Smoke Is Coming In Again
The Smoke Is Coming In Again Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Neil Thomas on Unsplash — (taken on Cilgwyn Mountain, 2018) The smoke is coming in again — a throwback to the childhood that my parents and grandparents had; reminiscent of those long-gone days of choking air and blackened skies, of water that no fish could live in, the black brooks of industry The smoke is coming in again and I can barely breathe, the smell is making me feel so sick, I can hardly stick it,...
where the cosmos combines
where the cosmos combines Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Suzie Blackman on Unsplash you’ve found that place again where the cosmos combines with your synapses and the syncing of the future with the past is something that you can take for granted — child’s play rainy days and that feeling when you’re pulled backwards on the swing let it sing on the precipice let the words fly from your fingers like throwing stars spit ’em out like a production line it’s all fine —...
Ffion? Is That You?
Ffion? Is That You? Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Marvelous Raphael on Unsplash Warning: violence, death, blood, injury, horror elements Author’s Note(s): Ffion is a common Welsh name, pronounced Fee-on (GoT fans: it rhymes with Theon.) Iesu, pronounced ‘yeh-see’ = Jesus in Welsh/Cymraeg. This is written in first person POV so the grammar (or lack thereof) and style reflect that — and some of it’s Wenglish dialect/speech patterns.
Hello Little Grasshopper
Hello Little Grasshopper Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Ochir-Erdene Oyunmedeg on Unsplash Dead leaves and the sound of a mower, the cat leaping across the lawn after a grasshopper — bright green and brown with a tiny alien face I gather him in my hands and pick him up, take him to safety, he crawls across my hand and I wonder how such a small thing can be so perfect — though I know many would disagree.
Toxic Arrow
Author’s Note: This is actually sort-of found poetry — I made it from picking words and phrases out of a weird a** stream-of-consciousness thing I wrote on Philip S. Naudus’ Koala Quill writing platform, to make up my minutes for my guild! I’m not sure it makes any sense whatsoever, but it sounds pretty cool, so I’m counting it as a win ;) Micropoetry is very short, and the M-site notoriously equates read-time with quality, and a lack of read-time with a lack of quality.
No Concentrating Today
No Concentrating Today Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Niklas Hamann on Unsplash My thoughts keep flitting and tripping from one mental rung to the next. It’s too difficult to concentrate on anything right now. Maybe it’s just the way that the world is. Author’s Note: Bit of a simple-ish one for you *shrugs* — hope you liked it. Micropoetry is super-short and our almighty algorithmic overlords here on the M-site prioritise high read-time, and punish a lack of it.
The Pattern Is Wrong (Sorrow Holding Its Domain)
(tears tears tears) cry a river cry a mountain cry a day cry a night tears tears tears sorrow holding its domain (pain pain pain pain) don’t know what i’m doing where i’m going (pain pain pain pain) what is the world someone ex-plain (please please please) someone ex-plain this pain to me someone ex-plain the shame to me someone ex-plain how we got here and where we’re going the world is on fire and i don’t know how i don’t know why (nothing makes sense nothing makes sense) and the world...
half written
half written Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash a half written story — with no resolution — cut off mid-sentence forever a work in progress — waiting for The End Author’s Note: This was one of the ‘buzzing round my head’ kind of poems — I ended up e-mailing it to myself, lol.
The Maestro Plays
The Maestro Plays Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Dolo Iglesias on Unsplash The piano is playing; — it’s earnest tune is clashing with the crashing of the thunder through the room — the drum section is jealous tonight; it’s part has been taken by nature’s instruments and there are no replacements now that the maestro plays There is the faint tinkling of the ol’ ivories beneath the crystal-tapping of rain on glass — no-one asks whether we should try this on some other...
A Boyle Always Says ‘I love you.’
A Boyle Always Says ‘I love you.’ A small thought on Brooklyn 99 Gif: Via Giphy Warning: grief/loss A Boyle always says ‘I love you’ — it’s one of the weirder recurring jokes of TV show Brooklyn 99. Members of Detective Charles Boyle’s family always greet and leave each other with the phrase ‘I love you.’ (And since this is a comedy, things get extra extra, of course.) And it makes me wonder — what happened in the Boyle family?
Exhalation
Exhalation Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by yaman zaareer on Unsplash A strangled exhalation skims the room, the breath is drifting through this enclosed space. Leaves us wondering about so many things; the losses that pile up in our chests, reminders of past sins and lost ambitions. A breath of yesterday’s regrets. Author’s Note: …I’m kind of proud of this one, not gonna lie.
The Iconic Darkness of Andrew Scott’s Moriarty
The Iconic Darkness of Andrew Scott’s Moriarty Andrew Scott totally understood this assignment — and passed it with flying colours. Graphic: author’s own, made with Canva Warning: this post contains brief discussions of mental health issues, and brief references to murder I can think of very few performances as utterly iconic as Andrew Scott’s Jim Moriarty. Long before he was Fleabag’s Sexy Priest, Andrew Scott was BBC Sherlock’s Sexy Criminal Genius.
They Tell Me That I’m Human
They Tell Me That I’m Human Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Luis Quintero on Unsplash I’m the oldest that I’ve ever been; I swear I’ve never felt younger — little lost, little scared, the ground’s not so solid any more; Oh, they tell me that I’m human …but sometimes I’m not so sure Author’s Note: Micropoetry is super-short and the almighty algo. is often mean to short pieces, because it falsely equates read-time with quality.
and the world is a mess (i think we need to face facts)
and the world is a mess (i think we need to face facts) Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Shannon Kunkle on Unsplash Warning: existential dread by the bucketful.
Concrete Roads
Concrete Roads Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Stanislav Filipov on Unsplash What’s concrete except an expectation of a tamed world in a world that could never be tamed (There’s a slope to the road cos they keep laying the surface wrong, every time that they repair it) Author’s Note: Shout-out to the road on my cousin’s street, which resembles the top of a tunnel, because instead of flattening it out to resurface it, they just put the new tarmac on top.
Pixel Eyes
Pixel Eyes Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash — — I got really lucky with the stock photos (lol.) Warning: existential dread, cos I know how to have fun My eyes are pixellated again, tired of looking at the modern world; have you tried the new trend?
The Work Keeps On Working
The Work Keeps On Working Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Cody Board on Unsplash You worked in the dark; weekends and midnights, all-nighters and candles burned at both ends You put your heart and soul into your work; threw pieces of yourself into each piece of art and wondered if anyone would ever see it — Was the light of day ever meant for you?
the least that you owe me
the least that you owe me Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by amir esfahanian on Unsplash So come on wish me happy So come on wish me well it’s the least that you owe me after all this hell So come on wish me happy So come on wish me rich — wish anything you want to ease that guilty itch Author’s Note: this is NOT a personal poem — in case I was worrying anyone! This is just one of those ones that kept buzzing around my brain until I wrote it down *shrugs* A reminder that...
Phantom Tones (From Before You Were Born)
Phantom Tones (From Before You Were Born) Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Valentin Balan on Unsplash Listening to songs that were written before you were born, lyrics about being young and reckless, sung in the phantom tones of an old man in waiting Author’s Note: Micropoetry is really short and the almighty M-site algorithm notoriously favours read-time and punishes a lack of it, so I would really appreciate it if you could hang around on the page for a little while...
Warm Cola
Warm Cola Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash Warm cola and too much humidity no energy and a bunch of tasks to do heatwaves and atmospheric pressure (…taking it out of me) — a damaged climate trying desperately to halt all productivity, while the dictators of industry keep living in luxury (Warm cola, and too much humidity.) Author’s Note: It’s too damn hot, and it’s been too damn hot for too damn long.
What Song Is This..?
What Song Is This..? Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Joe Vasquez on Unsplash What song is this? One I’ve never heard before, and yet it’s so familiar. Like I’ve heard it a thousand times. Like I’ve heard it every day. …I’ve never heard this song before, and yet it’s so familiar — tones of passionate misery, sighing, screaming, guitars, woven together with the promises of humanity at its heart. You gotta write to the music, hon, you gotta vibe with the song.
Slightly Gothic Lullaby
Slightly Gothic Lullaby Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Bastien Jaillot on Unsplash A gentle lullaby slowly passes by and how the children cry and how the wolves they howl and how the children cry and how the owls they screech and how the children cry as a gentle lullaby slowly passes by Author’s Note: …Sometimes I worry about myself, lol.
I Wrote And Wrote
I Wrote And Wrote Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash I wrote your heart into my tale word by word and day by day I used the ink to trap your days day by day and year by year I wrote your heart and made it clear you were never leaving here I wrote darling — I wrote and wrote trying to fill the space you left behind with words and words and lines and lines over and again until the goddamn end of time I wrote and wrote and wrote and hoped it would...
Strategies To Counter-Act My Harshest Critic
Strategies To Counter-Act My Harshest Critic Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by tabitha turner on Unsplash — — the model in this picture is like, ‘…I don’t know why you want me to pose like this, but as long as I get my cash…’ Lol! Self-compassion is something I struggle with — I am perpetually my own harshest critic.
drifting leaves
drifting leaves Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Oliver Hihn on Unsplash drifting leaves on summer sleeves (is the world a bad dream?) Author’s Note: Micropoetry is extremely short (and this is short, even for Micropoetry,) and the M-site’s algorithm is notoriously harsh on short pieces (because it prioritises read-time — and shorter pieces have shorter read-time, oddly enough.) Unfortunately, I can’t make myself pad pieces artificially for the sake of read-time — I’ve...
Scorched Summer
Scorched Summer Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Roxy Aln on Unsplash Summer swept in on a tinder-dry breeze, a sun-boiled drift-wind crept it’s way into every crevice We toasted inside, we roasted outdoors, the kind of punishing heat that gets into your pores and seems to stay there Summer swept in on a tinder-dry breeze, it scorched it’s way through hot days of misery and burning pavements We sweltered our way through a summer of shame ( — a CEO with no moral compass...
The Old Paths
The Old Paths Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Adam Mills on Unsplash Are you gonna use the tree-roots to line your way The worn-smoothe sea stones waiting for a wave The dirt-leaf paths, that woodland pave — I think the old paths are calling to you the tree-roots, the sea-stone, the leaf-dirt trodden and trodden and trodden over decades, centuries I think I think I think there’s a power in those old paths I think I think I think there’s an energy to things that last ✨...
Air-Tension
Air-Tension Press enter or click to view image in full size Photo by Adams Arslan on Unsplash Swear to god I’m a dog before a storm, I’m a pot getting too warm, I’m a lightly buzzing swarm today Author’s Note: …This one comes to you courtesy of my restlessness when the humidity gets too high (lol.) Micropoetry is incredibly short, and the M-site’s algorithm notoriously punishes pieces with low read-time, so I would really appreciate it if you could hang around on the page for a little while...
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