With Rusted Wings 

Reality grounds you.

Corroding the substance

of your dreams. Leaving

all your whimsical flights


of fantasy to die.

Wishes withering in

acidic truth are left

to decompose. They will


lie neglected to rot.

Their entities become

skeletal remnants of

a dilapidated soul


You will go on living

with your ambitious ghost,

knowing you won’t succeed

to fly with rusted wings.


©Jacqui Slade


Poetry readers

From a poets point of view I find that most of the time readers of a poem will just think that what you’re writing about is your own personal life or feelings.

They don’t ever stop to think that maybe it’s about someone else’s life or an empathetic write or just a piece of creative writing. 

Poets have imaginations.

Someone Else 

There’s always fault to find

and the criticism

is never constructive,

in fact it’s destructive

and I will never be

the ideal that you want.


I’m embarrassing.

My clothes are too young.

My hair is unkempt

and my tongue you would

wish to be constrained.


And it seems that

I am only

loveable when

it pleases you


and you can

exert your

control to


make me





©Jacqui Slade