Photo Credit: Scarlet Ellis on Unsplash.com

The colours of the Autumn complimented

her faded summer skin as you pulled her in

to embrace her pouty puckered lips

which often trembled in terrible helplessness

outside of her flawless deception.

It must have been the faint tobacco

and mint breath she exhaled while she

bit your lower lip, or the queasy feeling every

time she pronounced your name with a

giggle that frightened your senses.

It must have been the promised path

she helped illuminate, or the rusty door

she opened to increase your perception,

to which she led you with sweaty fingers

interlocked that made you remain…


Please tell me you’re just feeling tired, ’cause if it’s more than that I feel that I might break — Dashboard Confessional

Photo Credit: https://unsplash.com/@omurden

A clean sheet is a fresh slate

washed from the remnants of the past.

Stubborn stains dull its peak state,

like her self-worth that’s been harassed.

She had thrown it in the wash,

hoping the suds would drain the muck.

Insults, slurs, and all words harsh

cleansed by tears, sobs; whispers, “oh fuck.”

The clean sheet stretched mockingly

with the frame that holds memories.

Even for a while, it optimally

served her — freeing her from her worries.

But with her luck, the care and love

she willingly gave to the white

spread contaminates. Again, it shoves

her back to a defenceless fight.

The soaked sheet as a weapon for her fall:

she sighs, “why me, why not me, after all?”

©️Natasha Byrne 2020


Photo Credit: Alexander Krivitskiy from Unsplash.com

I am blanketed by a sheet of Darkness.

It materialized leisurely while I was

Sure that I was immune; he was harmless.

Instead, he came and clasped me with his sharp claws

While I was unconscious. Delightful dreams

Of serene seas and tranquil terrains ceased

By the reality that curtained me with its seams.

My triumph of everlasting release

Is falsified by the ambush of Doubt.

He hinted that he would reappear, as

My optimism usually wears out.

I thought I was careful from his caress,

But he came uninvited, even though

He is absent from my agenda. At times,


Photo Credit: Ian Panelo from Pexels.com

We used to run home during dusk-

To avert the Pontianak that might

Allure us with its fragrant musk.

It may be pretty or hideous at sight-

We heard stories of being awaken

By an unearthly lullaby;

A female figure revealed- mistaken

For a mother. Facts nullify

When it turned: big, bloodshot eyes pierced

Through the black hair that blanketed its sick,

Spectral face. Unwelcome, with fierce,

Fussy strokes, it manipulated her

Occupied womb. The victim froze

In terror. With a high-pitched shrill and stir,

It vanished. She fell into a doze

So restless and disturbed by the sunrise

That…


A rhymed iambic pentameter poem

Photo by Marcus Spiske on Unsplash

I push through each day optimistically.

A smile plasters on my face endlessly

As my posture remain practised from my

Mom’s words on the puppet paddle up high.

My weak knee quiver on the final hour,

But my planner show to overpower

That it’s not over; there are still things

I’ve yet to do. My reward and winnings

Will appear near dusk when the office clock

Strikes beer and tequila pressed on the rocks.

But first I’ll walk the dog, clean after two,

Surgically assess Jacobean too,

Practise glisser on the kitchen floor, while

The pizza makes its way before…


A story.

Credit: Unsplash.com by Annie Spratt

“No,” my mother wagged her manicured finger at me, and placed the butterfly clip on the nearest shelf. I moped and hated her for it. I cursed at the things she bought instead: a magazine and a bottled water. She would treasure that magazine until the gossips were ingested, excreted, forgotten. The plastic of the bottle would be empty, trampled on, and found on the shore where the current would arrive. I gulped back my tears, and through my skewed, tearful vision, I saw a butterfly clip on another girl’s head. Her golden locks were held perfectly together…

Natasha Byrne

Avid learner of English Literature and a lover of metaphors

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