Moving on...


Hi nice tumblr followers.

You’ve probably noticed that I’ve been rather heartbroken and sad - it’s been vomited all over my blog. I went through a bad break up with someone who I’d been with for a year and struggled through the worst of my mental health problems with.

By Christmas, I’d come…

My Own Bird Song

Perched on the edge in a tiny little cage

The tips of my nails are raw and pink

The scuffs on my knees are not accidental

Neither are the scars on my legs


‘Pulling at the heart strings’ is such a gruesome term

You pull and tear and rip and shred

Never allowing enough time to heal

I deliberately burn my tongue with hot tea

Just to make sure I can feel

Throw me in the boiling pan

I’ll scream too

You skinned me for my pelts

You wear me like a hilarious prize

Patronise and pity the mentally ill

Pretend that they are invisible


What is the point in being wise?

When there is nothing you can control with words from books or memorable quotes


Someone else controls

Someone else pulls and tears and rips

Never allowing enough time to heal

They throw you into the boiling pan

Muting your screams with a quick close of the lid

They pull your pelts ensuring that they’re entitled to


What is the point in being wise?

When you are not in control

Of yourself 

Poetry by Ellis Moore

The Feeling of Seasons

I feel swallowed up and I feel hollowed. 


How do the seasons change so quickly?

Tear drops in the rain, whispers in the rustling leaves, screams buried beneath the snow.


A fragile frame. I’m skeletal. I’m cracking. I’m weathered.


Do you see it? Do you see the tiredness in my smile? Do you see the shadows in my skin? Do you see the scars above and beneath?


I feel…

Obsessively Nostalgic

It takes a lot to make me feel. 

I hate that you seem so real.

But to me you will always be a phantom; a ghost I cannot shake.

Forever you insist on keeping me awake. 

Forever haunting.

Forever taunting.

Forever holding on.

Let go.

Let go.

Let me go.

A Poet

A poet who doesn’t know it,

Is the best kind of poet,

Because they write yet they do not know it,

Yes - That they are a poet,

Creating the best of words.

Because a poet who knows it,

Yes - That they are a poet,

are calculated in their flaws,

it shows in their writing,

it is what they adore.

So if a poet doesn’t know it,

Yes - That they are a poet,

Will not know it at all;

That their writing is blissfully flawed,

but they wont know it,

If they’re not a poet.


I’ve got spotty ones,

and dotty ones.

I’ve got floral ones,

and coral ones.


Stripey zig-zag copper bronze and golden.


I’ve got themed ones,

and dreamy ones.

I’ve got cat ones,

and dog ones.


Bears cakes pigs ducks shells jam jars and houses.


And inside them I have other things too.


Buttons brooches safety pins cotton reels and volcano pieces.


I collect and hoard and have to put up new shelves on my wall.


I could pile them as high as ten feet tall.


I could cover the whole of my bedroom floor.


Or line them up; wall to wall.


But the one I adore most of all is the one in my head.


It’s filled with books and collages and wine.


And in that teapot I spend most of my time.


That teapot is special.


Because it is my mind.

A Quarried Pocket Watch

Sitting in the same place I’ve sat for years,

Watching the seasons,

Watching the changes.


Sitting in the same place I’ve sat for years,

Watching the skyline,

Snow, rain, sunshine, clouds.


Sitting in the same way I’ve sat for years,

Crooked and careless,

Impatient and blind.


Sitting in the same way I’ve sat for years,

Hoping and praying,

Crying and lying.


I sit in this place that I’ve sat for years,

Because of past thoughts,

Because time has passed.


I sit in this place I’ve sat for years,

Listening to ticks,

Listening to tocks.


Should I keep sitting in this place?

Should I keep memorizing your face?

Should I share this only with time and space?

Literary Dreams

It’s a sinking feeling that we young people have about where to go and where we’ll end up and if it will make us happy or sad. The things you look forward to soon come and go, you’re so wrapped up in time flow, there’s no way that we could know. What it is that we’re meant to be doing where we are going and how we should get there. Why is that time always catches us when we’re so unaware? ‘Work hard, play hard’ is what we are told but in my head after studying my whole life it’s really starting to get old. It’s the small things like a good cup of tea, a cigarette in the morning and the sun which temporarily makes you feel free. I want to bury myself under my mountain of musty books. The words of the pages will wrap me up, so snug. It’s a sinking feeling that we young people have, where will I go, how will I get there, it really drives me mad. But me and my books, is all I need. Read to me, Lewis Caroll, freedom is in my literary dreams.


It’s been a while since I’ve been on my poetry blog unfortunately. I’m at the peak of my final year of my degree and I’ve been living and breathing my dissertation! But a lot has happened! I’ve been lucky enough to write for an online magazine called Whippersnapper which is a great importunity  I’ve written a book review on the Ralph Ellison’s American Classic Invisible Man. One of my poems, Polaroid Bath Tub has been published too. Please, take a look and keep an eye out for more work!