Dillydal dreams

Jun 12

Lit Camp Story

Story from Lit Camp

The lake was wide and rippling, the forest that ran the length of its three sides a mass of green and brown shadows. Across its surface a multitude of blue and green hues danced and flickered, melding with the yellow tinged shadows. It lapped over the speckled sand of the fourth side. 

Here, at the water’s edge, sat the girl. She was young, around 15, with voluminous curls held back in a ponytail of coal black hair, draped elegantly over one shoulder. In her hand was a sketch pad, balanced across her bent knees. She had sat there, staring out at the lake for at least 20 minutes, yet not one line had been drawn. Her face was a mask of concentration as she studied her surroundings, eyes closed. 

Ducks and magpies called loudly to one another, a trilling, honking, splashing disturbance to the gentle breeze that ran through the branches, swaying the trees. A cool soothing feather against her face. It filled her lungs with every revitalising breath, mixed with other duller scents of bark and eucalyptus. With her toes she dug through the coarse, dirty sand, cold and gritty. She flung it high with the tip of her foot. her heel dug further until her feet sat neatly aligned in a shallow depression. Tiredly, she opened her eyes. Tiny birds the size of her fist flew across the centre of the lake, diving, swooping, circling a joyful morning celebration. The girl frowned.

She had intended to come to the lake to calm herself that day, but instead she felt a gnawing frustration grow in her. She could draw this scene, could draw it perfectly. She could add every minute detail; every ripple, every tiny fish, every leaf in the distance.

But that wasn’t what she wanted to do. 

What is art, she thought, but a pale reflection of what is really beautiful? Any sketch she made here would be lovely, picturesque, a delight to set eyes upon. Yet it would never compare to the serenity, the stillness, the life at this lake. Like saying a pebble was a boulder, or a feather was a bird. It was not a fault of hers she knew, but it made her feel hopeless, that her talent could be so shallow. Like a fraud, she was taking a tiny part of the whole being, trying to sell it unfinished. 

And at the heart of this she felt her own fears. The fear of how she would one day be part of society, not just as an artist, but more than that. Would she be able to do something that made people understand that she was going to be different, make a change? She wanted to be that change, how people treated what they had, treated their environment, their fellow countries and all the sufferings in the world. So many times, she had wanted to rage and shout at the denial her world seemed to live in, the disregard they showed for the starving people, the wars being fought, the forests raised. She felt it now, a vicious growl inside her chest that threatened to break loose into the silent morning. 

A tear slid down her cheek at the same time the first raindrops began to fall on the lake’s surface. She had not noticed the grey clouds moving stealthily closer. Slowly, she put down her sketch pad and stood up, brushing sand from her jeans. She gazed out over the now murky lake, at the dark trees, the wheeling birds. It appeared as though the world cried with her, in this little corner of peace. 

Jun 11


Is this love?

The gentle secrets whispered,

that mist and fade,

slice through my dreams with a hiss.

Are we just fools?

You lips so sweet and warm,

yet leaves a poison tang,

every stolen kiss.

Could I be wrong?

In these arms I am safe,

secure in your embrace,

but choked in pythons hold.

Would you let me fall?

That scent lingers on your skin,

intoxicating, and still…

this chloroform. I bend and fold.

Can it be true?

Are you not the man of my dreams?

No. A hideous reptile of echoing screams.

Jun 11


I cannot hide this, even though I try,

There is nobody else, they tell me a lie.

I fell in love when I saw you face,

Perfection. You make my heart race. 

You light up my world, another world.

Kryptonite from another world.

Those bright lights, I’m blinded.

Cos you are everything I see.

Can’t stand the distance anymore,

It’s a quarter to three, can’t sleep at all.

It’s everything about you, messing with my head.

Circles, we’re going in circles. All, those things you said. 

Don’t wanna be reminded of what we should be,

Don’t wanna be without you, you save me. 

All my life I’ve been waiting, 

All my life I’ll be waiting.

Nothing’s fine, I’m torn.

A short explanation: This poem is about the slightly irrational obsession that a lot of us teenagers tend to have with celebrities. I combined a couple of lyrics from my favourite band’s songs to show that, in way, we’re all kind of in denial about the fact that we love them but will probably never meet them. The title has my favourite band member’s name in it too (I can spell) which is what gave me the idea (in case you’re wondering).

Apr 29

I will love you ‘til the end of time

I will love you ‘til the end of time, for all eternity.

I will keep you locked inside my heart, to where there is no key.

My knight in shining armour, to place me on his throne.

To know your heart belongs to me, I’ll never be alone.

Your face is but a brilliant sun, a smile bright and warm.

Eyes of love, clear blue glass, my shelter from the storm.

Your arms wrapped tight around my waist, comforting. secure.

For you will never leave me, your love is strong and pure.

Soft lips brush my cheek, fingers through my hair.

A promise gently whispered, my life with you to share.

I know your every aspect, from your head down to your feet.

I will love you ‘til the end of time, though we have yet to meet.

Apr 11

quote Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it

— Mark Twain
Mar 19


The 14th Dalai Lama:
The Paradox Of Our Age

We have bigger houses but smaller families;
more conveniences, but less time.

We have more degrees but less sense;
more knowledge but less judgment;
more experts, but more problems;
more medicines but less healthiness.

We’ve been all the way to the moon and back,
but have trouble in crossing the street to meet our new neighbor.

We built more computers to hold more copies than ever,
but have less real communication;
We have become long on quantity,
but short on quality.

These are times of fast foods but slow digestion;
Tall men but short characters;
Steep profits but shallow relationships.

It’s a time when there is much in the window but nothing in the room.

— The 14th Dalai Lama
Mar 16

The Paradox

Tears of happiness:

Mixing ‘I love you’ with ‘you’re beautiful’.

Tears of frustration:

Mixing ‘I don’t know how’ with ‘It doesn’t work’.

A little thought I had whilst on my computer today….

Mar 16

The Rose

Secluded garden, here she grows,

illumined like pearl she glows.

A radiant face in petals wreath,

high above the few beneath.

Tinged with sweeps of sunsets grace,

soft as feathers, silken lace.

Perfume lingers, heaven scent,

draws you in, cannot relent.

and find yourself in godless night,

amongst the shadows burns her light.

Nestled in among the thorns,

a fiery halo, set with horns.