Showing posts from April, 2013

What Makes Me, You.

What Makes Me You. I don't often explain my titles, they are a little mysterious piece of my work that allow the imagination to wonder, but I'll explain this one to you. People question how sometimes I dare to put such words to paper. I dare because I can. Although a lot of controversy may surround the issues I speak of, I may leave them dwindling in the air, allowing you to ask a question - and this is my aim. To leave you asking questions. What makes me you is that I too, am human. I can be a very naive human, and I am the first to admit this, my opinions will not always be correct. My work not always in perfect rhyme or be grammatically accurate, but I do my best.

I was recently asked how it feels to place my life on the Internet for the world to see. My answer? It is a cylinder of continuously turning match-boxed woven replica of Hell. I hurt when you criticise me, yet I appreciate it too.

My work consists of two different shelves, one fiction. One non-fiction. You will u…

Dancing The Ballroom

I listened to the beat of notes
And frankly kicked my feet
To Jive.
Only yesterday I sat in bed,
Yet today I came, again, alive.

I moved then to another tone,
And swung across the
ballroom floor.
A thousand times I've moved this way,
Yet never seen this life before.

I rocked then to a rumba kiss,
Closed my eyes and dreamt
Of this.
Pace increased and motion flared
The Tango taught my soul to care.

Full-sprint headfirst with nose so high,
Quickstep so light that I
Can fly.
I head straight for the stars so red,
And fall to natural rhythm instead.

The final dance and I here I glide,
With slower pace and
Smile of pride
Here and now I dance the Waltz,
Exam conditions and confidence false.
Ballroom and Latin beat my
I stumble yet I start again.

The music stops and then I see,
The music lives

By Boneata Bell

You may or may not know that I am a Ballroom and Latin American dancer. I began dancing when I was about six years of age and it is a huge part of …

Paint Picture.

Picture This.

There is you and me, standing still as strangers on a division so deadly to cross. There are electric flames running through it, but it is safe. To to touch it, we'll probably spark little ripples of static through our skin but you'll kiss me and it will feel like power running through our veins...

Picture this. The drinks are pouring down our throats like the good-girl-bad-girl dreamy image you can place within your mind, because you are a man. 'Cos she can be that too, you see. You can do both when your heart beats faster.

Picture this because the music is so loud you cannot hear my voice. I hate my voice. We could communicate, technology is a dream these days. Yet I wold rather stare up at you, you're taller than me and that. Is. perfect.... It is possible if I cannot hear what you are thinking.

Picture this again. A swap of contact and the division snaps in two with only me and you. Alive in this all so crowded scenario. Picture this if you want me. I…


It would be something significant
To live off the memory
Of happiness.
It would ease the strength
From the happy heart,
And in one stance, it then would part-
Protection with a flame.

It would allow something invisible
Yet present dust, to slowly form -
Barricade then, this fence of wire
Call my love and be my squire!
A clutch of angry tears form
Without such fear - I then would
Fall... away from
Lower ground.

It would distinguish both
The metal guard and useless heart,
With sentimental touch and soul.
The highs and lows of
Value dreams.
I want much more,
Than I have seen!
Sometimes I wish I only could,

Be satisfied with just memories.

To meet someone and to smile, to have a perfect time and perfect rhythm. To want more of them, to want more of a gift to ask for more, you risk ruining perfection. But we'll always crave more.

- Boneata Bell