I’m not really a poet. What am I saying, I am not a poet. But I do like a bit of poetry when I can fathom what it’s about. I have a habit of hanging around with poets and artists in the hope that a little bit of their creativity might brush off – after all some people seem to get more than their fair share of talent.

During and after treatment I wrote down a few words and turned them into poems.


When I walk into the room

it is empty

Beyond the window

a tree


I know something will happen here.

You will tell me

and I will crumble


Beyond the tree



life goes on.

You walk in

kind, capable, knowing.

You bear bad news

I guessed it


Felt it growing


Beyond the people


where I will lie

Your hands will wound me

steal what makes me woman

But beyond the breast



He was the last one to touch me


as he stole from me.

My own hand hovers

scared to touch


where once was full beauty

now stretched, ugly.

This disease mocks me


I am woman cut flat.


Across from me she is crying

her sleep troubled, like mine.

She talks to no one

but I am here

a witness to her fear.

Her body, like mine has let her down.

Yet our minds fight on.

Thoughts stalk the corridors of our slumber.

In the morning

she and I will wake

forgetting the fears we fought tonight.


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