slog, slog, slog away

person using typewriter
Photo by Min An on

Slowly crawl,

Slog your way

To higher numbers,

Triple digits,

Then four or five,

But do it for

Reasons that are right.

I just got a little notification from WordPress to say ‘Congratulations! You have reached 1,000 flollowers!’ And I had to stop and smile because it’s been a bit of a labour of love to reach that significant marker.

When I started this blog, I had high hopes of making a fortune from it, but as I wrote, I found I didn’t want to create content that was all about the best ways to save money or ween your baby. I wanted to write poetry, and about my life in the hope that at least a few people might feel the same things as me.

And for that reason, three years down the line, I have earnt zilch from this project. And I have put hours and hours of work into writing thousands of posts.

But the joy I have had in making those posts, sending them out into the world and receiving loving comments back is worth much more than thousands in advertising. And I hope that the 1,000 followers I have accrued are lovely people who value what I write.

Thank you to all of you (especially those of you who are not bots), and here’s to another three years of writing while laughing, smiling and crying.

Much Love

Rachel xx

the footballer’s wife

photo of woman holding bottle
Photo by Daria Shevtsova on

She’s blonde, of course

And kind of plastic with her lips,

Her tits that were a birthday gift.

And when she shops for bags and shoes

She’s snapped by men with lenses zooming in

Up her skirt, getting out the car.

She’s got no brain, though,

Only there to hook his arm

When he goes to flashy parties and awards,

She’s there as something shiny to admire,

No feelings, she just smiles.

And in the latest photograph

That graced the glossy magazines

I thought I saw a tear.

It rolled its way, a rivulet

Down her cheek before she swept

An arm across her face.

An argument, or news that bubbles

Underneath that glossy smile. It hurts,

Those comments on the internet.

She may look fake, a figure of romantic fun

Who we can poke and prod with words.

But think. She’s hurting under there

And no one’s there to soothe her wounds,

Just money and her shoes.