Category Archives: Prose

Far from through

From a very young age I’ve spent a majority of my time enveloped in darkness. Glimpses of light sporadically peeking through, more as a reminder that the tunnel I’m exploring does indeed seem to have an end. Love, being the ultimate goal, caused my search to deepen beyond the flesh of life’s soils, and dig… Boy, did I dig! Throughout my journey, I’ve met demons that wore my face, as their chastising voices laced my every thought. Until I thought, no more. I surrendered. I gave in. The blackened hole that was how I knew my soul to be, completely swallowed me.
Depression claimed me. It was bliss!
I no longer needed to hide my tears, no longer needed to paint on a smile, no need to be, anything. I had found the perfect dark corner of the world. Indifference. From here, nobody could ever reach me, harm me, hurt me, kill me, love me…wait… Nobody can ever love me… Fuck! What have I done?
Yeah, it’s one thing to realise that you’ve buried yourself alive, it’s a completely different task when recognising that it’s only you that has the claws that can scrape through this cryptic labrynth that you’ve burrowed your way into over the past three decades. Where the fuck does one start? Is the beginning the last shovel of dirt i coated my mind in, or is it all the way back to the first?
Now the claustrophobia kicks in! Great! The weight of every decision I have ever made crushing my chest, even the moments that I left for others to create seem to have fallen and landed on my already suffocating breath. The universe is fucked up, and it’s all my fault! Ok, so maybe this seems a tad dramatic, but I never said depression was rational. Honestly, I believe rationality is far overrated anyway. If I let my ‘mature’ mind decide all the paths to take, where’s the room, the freedom, to learn, grow from my own mistakes?
I picked up a saying, just a few years ago, in a moment where a microphone was being shoved into the faces of my best friend and I, karaoke! No way! We both shrilled… Until, she turned to me, and said, “What would your 65 year old self say?”
So, we both skipped to the stage and belted out a tune… It was hideous. But fuck it was fun! From then on, this 65 year old me has been pretty much cross stitching me new pieces of bravery from the opposite shoulder to the little lady I have labeled ‘miss rationality’. Which one wears red, who cares? All I know, is that before I even consult with lil miss, I give the aging lady a spin and twirl. Oh the things this 65 year old woman has had me do, I’m seriously blushing at the thoughts. Perhaps when I’m her age, I’ll write about the life we shared.
All I know, is that one moment of courage is enough to start turning these retched soils over…
All I know, is this darkness that lingers, whispers, beckons my return, is just another sign for me to pick up that shiny microphone and belt out another terribly pitched tune…
All I know, is that this 65 year old self and I are far from through!

…and the journey continues…


I don’t often write of love.

I don’t often write of love.
Sure, I may occasionally pen
Directed as a suggestion, more so than a profession. Yet, who am I to suggest such a thing? For I, myself know not what it means.
Sure, I’m familiar with the term, have used it broadly in exclamation of intensity, but what confusion simply using one word can often bring. I am a mother, a grand one at that. No, not a boast, I’m just that old. My love for these beings is undoubtedly the most intense I’ve experienced. Yes, I know I’d lift a car if one happened to be between me and the moment of ones life and death. This love, is without question. But upon reflection, would I find such strength, such a will within myself, to lift said burden from crushing me? History has proven to me, no. Now that’s not to say that my future reads as bleak, not admitting I find myself unworthy, it’s simply reminding myself that’s it’s only me, that will ever stop me from feeling truly worthy, of love.
I love to write of lust! The thrusts of such carnal toe curling throes, flows so easily from my pen. Again, I wonder if it’s because I feel safer with the boundary that using the word ‘lust’ over ‘love’ implies.
To be totally truthful, ‘love’ scares the absolute fuck out of me.
That single moment of undeniable vulnerability simultaneously makes me ache in yearning to taste, and hide my heart away… in aid of what, keeping it safe? Love of ones Self, is no doubt my life’s goal. Well, a challenge so far, but a goal none the less… Love of and for another, that love that has kept the hands and hearts of poets occupied for eons of time, and will continue to do so for eternity I suspect, yes, that love, terrifies me. I mean, honestly, allowing one soul to reach in, behind every mask I adorn, strip me of all pretense, cull me of any shelter, bare me of these layers that I’ve tirelessly placed in self preservation, of protection, against breaking, against being taken, as a fool, as a love sick fool…yep…terrified!
And what of the moment of realization that on paper, the realities simply do not connect all the dots, yet the way every moment of every single day is completely drenched by thoughts of how they make you feel, complete, worthy, wanted, needed. Is that enough? Is that love? Or just another lust that wears a cloak of blood pumping greed? Does love even need to make sense? Or is that the whole purpose? It never does, never will? Is that the hurdle that must be leapt? The edge of the cliff that must be found? The jump, the fall, the not knowing if you’ll crash n burn or flap n soar?
Fucked if I know! All I’m sure of is that I don’t often write of love.
For I, myself know not what it means…


Time, to change

is of the essence
they say
There’s no time
like the present
is fleeting
is precious
stands still
is wasted
always changes
They say

And… ‘They’ are right…
And not…

Some times
stuck in ages
of old patterning
Take an example
or rather
Poetry books
Have you ever noticed
upon a second hand
book sale stroll
how a fictitious novel
of maybe a year
since its release
is completely dog eared
and adoringly used
yet those books
that were penned
by those poets
now passed
into historical grasp
stand tall
and pristine?

to change

In this day
and age
our daily lives
with an over abundance
of experiences
to explore
we have time
to turn one page
just one
a day….

to change

A questioning mind
has me ponder why
a novel finds
so many cupped hands
caressing spines
Is it perhaps
that the story
calls you back
to flick those delicious pages
like a world
your return
to delve
out of yours
and in to theirs?

Then what
of the poets?
Because they pen
one life per page
Does it lack
in an engage
Fall short
of a returning
dance with their words?

to change

To all
or any
that read these words
it’s poetry
that has steered you
to even know
i exist
My request
is simply this…

Next time
any time
every time…
you see a book
of heart
bleeding poetry…
and think…
Do i have time…
to let these words
my poetic thirst…

One page
At • A • Time



Go Megan, it’s your Blogday!

Yet another entry
of my worded world
my scribed life
my poetic unknowns
my eclectic writes

66 countries
of wide worldly eyes
including their minds
with mine

1 year
365 days
117 posts
66 countries
That’s a whole lot of spanking right there!!

Makes Megan Kay
feel the need
to cuddlefuck you all!!!

Blown away
by the velocity of love
shared by each word offered
in response to drips from my pen

Time and time again
my life finds it’s way
onto these blog pages
in hope that it’s release
will bring my mind peace
Sometimes I click send
through firmly gritted teeth
my personal worthiness
often not feeling complete
And there you are
catching my fall
using your time
to scroll what’s mine
making it yours

Blown away
by your sheer generosity
You leave me humbled
in deeply puddled gratitude

I began this blog to battle the restraints of those strangling 140 character limits…
Little did I know, think, believe, any of you would ever read me…
I’m not a poet, nor a writer of any kind, I do though have a steamy infatuation with the curves of each letter I find, I have fought not to rhyme, my mums voice chiming in the back of my mind, binding my tongue at times, grinding behind my twitching thumbs, so, I’ve occasionally hidden my incessant addiction in flinging some forged forms of alliteration appreciation.
A little story here and there, has kept me from believing I’ve dropped the ball completely. Really, I told myself I’d have a book by now, and that is far from my reality. You see, the timeline, and the people that visit daily totally owned me. Not only while I was finding beauty in the world to share, yet in my dreams, be them asleep or upon open eyes, I needed, I craved, I yearned, ached, painstakingly, to find… You…
I scrolled, read, shed words of blood red, all in order to woo, to reach beyond the puddles that divided, I sent letters, of desire, hoping to inspire, I uncorked the bottle of my emotions, unbeknown your potions had been cast, and I, was spellbound. Drowned.
Last week, I found a crack, in the dark room that had me encased. I traced it, with fingertips that were laced with the chill of our last kiss.
That, was it.
Time, for me, had ceased.
The walls of worn pages all seemed to crease and crumble, I myself tumbled to my knees, not in grief, however, sheer relief.
Fuck! I’m free…

This week… Damn I miss you all!
I miss sharing my scotch o’clock with your morning coffee.
I miss reading of your triumphant wins against the battles with your shadows.
I miss the laughter, the hugs through tears, the dancing the swooning the deviantly delicious musing.
I miss my words touching, tangling, tasting yours.
I miss… Well… I miss you all!

Thank you, for being my addiction!
Thank you for feeding my insatiable hunger for this literary curse.
Thank you for your encouragement and support for all that I’ve gone through.
Thank you, for being… You
And allowing me, to be me x

Now, I’m not on the timeline, and if I was, I’d totally pimp the hell out of my blog this week… So, consider yourself lucky *cheshire grin*

Instead, I’m going to list a few of my personal faves…
I hope you enjoy x

Oh, one last thing….
@_MeganKay_ may not exist
but she is indeed alive and inspired xxx
(Not to mention totally batshit crazy speaking of herself in third person)

Lie to me poet

His power

Balancing Act

My moon


Between two minds

Upon ripened eyes

Beyond words

I want

I’m taking you with me


I adored every second of how this one came to be! Thank you x
The Tweeples Piece

Come, with integrity

And just for shits n giggles…
A little holiday joy… *winks*

Merry Christmas Handsome

Happy New Ye….s. Right There

See you soon…
Love to you and yours x

Girl Talk…

From the moment we can
We do…
Girls talk…
Sharing our truths
Be that of which Barbie
gets to wear the hottest shoes
Or which one gets a night out
with the almighty handsome Ken
We talk
We spend hours
discussing the hottest boys
in the school yard
Days splayed in the sun
speaking of our virginity
and how we gave it away
We talk to children
teaching them all we know
hoping our words
will assist their growth
We whisper to teens
allowing them a moment
to believe their dreams
are not just worthless
but worthy of every wish
We converse
over afternoon teas
with ladies of similar lives
driving our chats
through laughter filled afternoons
We curl onto sofas
nestle in nooks
of our aching despair
with chick flicks and chocolate
We march
screaming for our rights
We silence
quietly seeking stillness
We parade
our happiness brightly
We shade
our darkness with masked smiles
We grow
into women
So girl talk does too
It morphs
as all truths do
It becomes less
about gossip
of what others are doing
It becomes more
of our journeys
and how we are pursuing
~ Girl talk ~
Girls talk
Ladies talk
Women talk
We will always do
anything we need to
to learn unto ourselves be true
I myself
am no longer a girl
I have shifted
beyond that title
I am a woman
into my soul I have grown
Now, when I talk
it is not of the unknown
I have no regrets
I use my past as my guide
I have no reason to hate
I used myself as the bait
I will never be a victim
I created my entire world
I will never know it all
And that there
is why I adore
Girl Talk!



This piece was sent to me by a friend last Xmas… I did my best to source the author, through no avail.
I feel a little awkward in publishing it without their permission, yet, I find it so incredibly written!!
Please, if any readers recognise these words, let me know, so I can credit them with my humbled awe!

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
when all through the domain,
Not a subbie was stirring,
(they were tied down with chain)
The shackles were hung
by the chimney with care,
And the St. Andrews cross
stood empty and bare.
The subbies were nestled
all snug in their beds,
While visions of floggers
danced in their heads;
The Dom in his leather,
and I in my slave cap,
Had just settled down
after getting our whacks.
When out on the lawn
there arose such a clatter,
I crept from the bed
to see what was the matter.
Away to the window
I flew very quickly.
Tripped over some handcuffs
and cursed soft and thickly.
The moon on the breast
of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of mid-day
to objects below,
When, what
to my sleep-crusted eyes
should unfurl,
But a miniature sleigh,
pulled by eight pony girls,
With a Dominant driver,
so forbidding and stern,
I knew in a moment
I’d a great deal to learn.
More rapid than eagles
his pony girls came,
And he whipped them,
and shouted,
and called them by name;
“Now, dashslave!
now, danceslave!
now, pranceslave
and switch!
On, subbie!
on slavegirl!
on, slavepet
and bitch!
To the top of the porch!
to the training room wall!
And I’ll redden your bottoms,
should one of you fall!
As terrified tears
before the cat-o-nine flow,
When they meet with an obstacle,
gather courage and go,
So up to the house-top
the pony girls flew,
With the sleigh full of sex toys,
and the Dominant too.
And then,
in a twinkling,
I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing
of pony girl boots.
As I drew in my head
with a sense of forebode,
In through the front door
the Dominant strode.
He was dressed all in black,
from his head to his feet,
And his clothes were all studded,
leathered and neat.
A bundle of sex toys
he had flung on his back,
And he looked very menacing
opening his pack.
His eyes, they were hard
with a definite glower
His countenance cold,
and I quite felt his power.
His sternly set mouth
bespoke no reprieve,
For the unlucky subbie
who caused him to grieve.
The goatee he sported
lent a devilish air
As did the slight spatter
of gray in his hair.
He had strong pectorals
and a muscular torso.
That hardened and flexed
and gave force to each blow.
He was lean, stern and fit,
quite the Dom of my dreams,
And I wanted to serve him,
so went down on my knees.
He looked down upon me,
with a turn of his head,
He made my soul tremble
while my heart filled with dread;
He spoke not a word,
but put me to straight to work,
He watched me in silence,
idly tapping his quirt.
“Heel me,” he commanded,
the lone words he would say,
And he stalked out the door
as I rushed to obey.
He sprang to his sleigh,
to his team cracked the whip,
Pulled me ‘cross his knee,
where i hung scared and limp.
And he whispered to me,
“I shall teach you a lesson.
Happy Christmas, new slave;
tonight we shall session.”

Sundays escapades

The brink of winter found our bodies wrapped beneath layers of heavy warmth. Our fingers almost ached as their tight link was strained by woolen gloves, but there was no way I’d ever let go. Frosted breath escaped in puffs of laughter as he teased me about our afternoons sexual escapade. My blush faded in the darkness of the lightly dusked haze, but he knew it rose, as I knew his cock would be twitching at the memories we’d just made.

A Sunday morning lazily wasted with too many coffees and bare breasted poetry read. He likes my nails lacing their way through his curly tufts as he reads to me words of wondrous lust. Sundays were our favourite, each breath unplanned, spontaneous.
‘Let’s go to the movies’
His voice barely heard, yet the depth reverberating through my chest resting ear.
‘Oh yes please’ I almost squealed, as I straddled his lounging lap, covering his smile with kisses.
We showered together, it wasn’t a written rule yet a Sunday treat that seemed to be our constant.
He washed my entire body clean, with suds of coconut milk, then fucked my screams into steam, before allowing me to lather him, touch him, cover him with my sated adoration.
We made it to the movies, barely.
Scents of buttered popcorn wafted through the door he held open. My mouth watered, I’m not entirely sure if it was from the bursting smell, or his fingers resting on the nape of my neck as he followed my sway through the door. Either way, my body ached, in elation.
The countryside theatre was a bit of a drive, but the only one he enjoyed visiting. A quaint little building, with a welcoming warmth that the cities cinemas never matched. Just more than a few rows of burgundy upholstered seats had us find our comfort, not quite the back, but centered to the heavily draped screen.
My eyes slowly scanning the company we’d be sharing time with, pleased to see only a scattering of matured couples, softly conversing as the lights slowly dimmed.
The chairs either side of us wore our coats, gloves and scarves in wait to once again be adorned when our momentary reprieve from winters freeze ended. Until then, my bare fingers danced along the insides of his thighs, as his did mine. Both of us finding the source of heat simultaneously, we sheepishly grinned into a deeply devouring kiss. Our tongues danced to the tune of the opening scene, which left the next too, to be left unseen.
His whiskers scratch so evocatively over my greedy claim of his intoxicating flavour. My busy fingers freeing him from being restrained, wrapping his pulsating shaft in my friction heated palm. Long, slow strokes, rolling my thumb around his helmet, had his twitch spark my swift depart from his hungry lips.
I slid myself down, resting between his parted knees, he shifted in his seat, just enough for his throbbing need to be completely available for me to play.
Desperate to take him deeply, my lips wrapped loosely as he reached beyond my teeth, into my moan. His fingers finding themselves tangling tendrils of hair, his cock was my game, his hot cum, my prize.

I slowed, a lifted gaze as I rose, circling, curling my tongue with licks and flicks to his low groans.
‘Shhhhhh’ came a complaint from a lower row.
A firm hand grip had me forced into ‘don’t fucking stop’ mode.
My pussy clenched in a frenzy of thrilling spills, gliding my fingers between my moistened folds, I lifted them and smeared my arousal, for his tongue to taste and savour.
‘Be quiet!’ Another voice scoffed.
As he tossed his head back in an attempt to ease his heaving throat.
His heavy balls contracting in my massaging hand, my long twisting strokes beckoning his spill. He filled my mouth, with pumping jets of tangy cream that followed my swallows with mirrored urgency of my need to drain his every last drop. He gave me his all, and I took my reward with perhaps a little too much pleasure, as our hushed exit was expected with a brightly intruding spotlighted escort.

‘Maybe we should see a movie again next Sunday’ his tone oozing with sarcasm.
‘Let’s’ I replied, leaning in to kiss his smirk, letting him taste remnants of our Sunday cinematic escapade from my perfectly swollen lips.

Love, is the key

She’d been hurt
burnt bridges
to ease pains
She’d been locking
away her truths
scattering them
upon deserted paths
along the way

A cavernous heart
curling inwards
had her fetal rock
find depths
claiming her flame
no more turns
she met
lock down

in self doubt
spirals of storm clouds
wringing each breath
with sublime regret
Time dangled
unlocking her essence

The key
to her very existence
rested sweetly
upon lips of need
Her fading beat
deeply frozen
by greedy shallows
slowly heated
with intensity
as she heard
her soul
beckoning freedom

is the key


The Tweeples Piece

This piece is dedicated to my twitter timeline. Yesterday, I requested some fresh ideas, anything to get my pen flowing, and in doing so, I promised to incorporate each offering into one single piece. Here is what I was gifted with.

I truly hope I don’t disappoint.
Here it is…

The Tweeples Piece…

The mirror adored her, always has, mocked her even. Locks of golden hair that tumbled in bouncy beauty now swiftly restrained in a messy ponytail, she curled her lip, snarled at her reflection in her rear view, and hit the gas…
Where she was headed, not even she knew, as long as it was anywhere but here, that’s where she needed to be.
The radio in this old car never was loud enough to drown out her thoughts, but today, the music didn’t even reach her ears. Today, was the last fucking time she’d let a man deceive her, the final time she’d fall for a tailored suit and a million dollar smile. Never again, would she let herself get tangled in fresh linen sheets with one that spun them with his scorchingly seductive linguistics.
Nope… Never again!
Just like the last time… Sigh…
Shaking her head at her stupidity, her mind sinks into a moment, grade school, Tommy P… The dreamiest boy in class, slyly scripted love letters lead to sweet valentine kisses behind the bike sheds. And the next day, and the next… And the next, his lips were locking with buck toothed, scrawny arms, EX best friend, Penny!
Broken, shattered, found…
That, was the day Goofy entered her world. His name was Jack, but he never seemed phased by the name others had given him. Long and lean, a goofy smile that rarely broke, an underarm forever filled with books. He was the type of boy that kept to himself, and watched the world with an uplifted eyebrow, as if to say, what the fuck are you doing.
‘So, what the fuck are you doing?’
His long shadow blocked the blazing sun, his harsh words saved her from drowning in the pool of self pitiful tears.
‘Ummmm crying… And what’s it to you?’
That was it, they shared an easy smile, walked home in sounds of her constant babble, and his steady footsteps. Stopping directly outside her house, her confusion spoke.
‘How did you know where I live?’
Shifting his heavy stack of literature, he raised a single finger, aimed at the dark house next door, the one that instantaneously struck spine tingling shivers every time she allowed her eyes to remember it even existed.
‘You live….there?’
His goofy lip curled, as he turned to walk away. ‘Come’.

The summer sun beat down with a fury that matched her mind, the classic car purred into each corner along this road that held her, steered her from the crippling pain, to nowhere, just away. Picturesque mountain peaks lost in shadows of her clouded mind, the deep valleys shallowed in compare to her tumultuous thoughts. Her boiling rage reminded her of ‘that Halloween’.

Trick or treating was fun, when fueled with a few swigs of vodka. A playboy bunny tail swished with her slinky sway, no fine detail could be spared when the schools most sought after hottie, Chad, was due to be on your doorstep at any minute. Candy collecting kids filled the streets, spooks and ghouls screaming for the sake of the thrill. A haunting night, if treated right. A dark corner, a horny teenager, an alcoholic heat, a tights tearing reality. Chad turned, in the blink of an eye, from a nice guy, into a forcefield her waving arms could not contain. A rampant thrust of lust her petite yet buxom frame could not warn away. He was animal, a carnal beast, hurting her was the least of his concerns.
And then, nothing.
A silent room, dimly lit by flickers of soft gold. A throbbing ache covering her entire body halted her escape, eyes scanning the room for some familiarity. And there it was, a wall of books, some scattered on the side tables, others piled on the floor. She, once again, was in the home of Goofy.
‘Welcome back’ a deep voice jolted her sore form, it came from a corner that sat almost completely shadowed from light.
‘How did I get here?’
‘Never mind.’
What happened to…’
‘Never mind.’ His tone cut the air like a knife that knew of no resistance.
She had no more questions.
The night was spent, with stories of centuries old, poetry recited through his well versed lips, chills of gripping delight, tales of titillating torture. He claimed her mind, with a powerful rush of knowledge, understanding and a steamy mug, of intoxicatingly rich hot chocolate. He read to her in an elated tone of the 7 deadly sins, witches slipping drops of poison from hidden vials abreast, she then took turn and found a beautifully bound Anais Nin. He let his fingers comb through her long hair, as they laughed through words scripted to entice, to desire, to quiver and scare. The ghostly night of hallows eve drifted by them as if the sunlight peeking through the curtains of dawn was the norm.

The sun was now preparing to rest, she’d been driving for hours on end. A refuel of her body and car found her soft smile at the brief memories she shared with that goofy boy from next door. He’d saved her, protected her in times of aching despair. He’d taught her to believe that her beauty was more than skin deep. He promised her that one day she’d finally know just how worthy she was of the love she longed for, yearned to feel, sought to live. Her eyes pooled, as she once again began to drive. Silly fool was she to believe a stupid goofy boy with too many books to read. Look at her now, a decade between, in the car, headed nowhere due to love once again being nothing but a farce. Everything, everyone she’d let in, allowed to see her, had used her, abused her, torn her down and left behind the pieces. Yes, a fool she was to believe in goofy dreams.
A cold moon crested, as full as the wolves would devour with howls. Her fingers found comfort as they began to fiddle with her fine string of pearls.

‘You’re leaving today, upon a journey toward your destiny’ He whispered in her ear as he stepped in close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath.
‘It’s just college, Goofy, not a worldly expedition’ she giggled at his touch as he gently turned her to face the mirror.
‘Oh they’re beautiful. Just superb’
‘They’re mine, and will remain that way.’ He replied sternly.
Her eyes found his in their reflected caress. Puzzled, she traced the perfect strand of allure with a light brush.
‘These are pearls of pain and pleasure, my treasure. You may wear them but in doing so, you too, are mine.’
Her laugh was enough to wake the living dead, her head thrown back onto his broad shoulder.
‘Oh Goofy, how your twisted mind pleases me.’ She spun on her heel sweeping delicate kisses on his cheeks.
‘Good bye dear poet, write me sometime.’
That was the final sweet moment they’d shared as friends, the door closing behind her. They were, no more.

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, her heart was skipping beats. Her car came to a halt, before she even knew where she was. The darkness drenched in a light dew, masked the streetlights in an eerie hue. She peeked through her window, only to see that familiar dark house. Laughing aloud at the ridiculous notion that firstly, she was here, not to mention it had been ten years. There’s no way! Not a chance in scolding hell…
Her steps up the path were quivering with anticipation. She finally understood what he meant when they last met. Her mind no longer strained to believe, her body no more felt the grip of fear. She knew, without doubt, she was destined to be here.
A quiet knock, lightly bit her knuckles. A flicked light above startled her stance. A long slow squeak of the door, revealed a tall, dark, handsome man.
‘You’re here?’ She whispered as if the breath was stolen from her lungs.
‘I knew you’d return. Now, come.’
He gripped her wrists with an almighty tug, lifting them both directly above her panting mouth. Pinned beneath the boy so poetically goofy, and the walls that had seen the strong man he’d always been.
Here, lived her dream.
His claim, her freedom.