Why I Created A Patreon Page

The Mouse is going to be very honest, the Mounegative-peoplese feels very uneasy and unsure about this. The Mouse is very uncertain about whether this is a good idea or a terrible train wreck waiting to happen. However, the Mouse has spoken to people, and taken a lot of advice, and that advice was, no harm will come of this. So, armed with this advice, that no harm will be done, Mouse has a Patreon Page.

For those, who like the Mouse, have no idea what Patreon is. Patreon is a website where content creators put their content and people can pay or subscribe to it. It seems to have a lot of “models” making promises about what is in their subscriber section. This makes Mouse uneasy, however, the big advantage over other ways of receiving donations, is that Patreon does not require the disclosure of personal details for a donation be received.

Why you ask is the Mouse interested in donations, Mouse certainly does not blog for the money or isnt blogging to seek fortune. The Mouse worried that people would think this was an attempt to make a profit, really worried, in fact worried enough that Mouse will scrap this if that is what it turns out people think. Instead, Patreon donations are a way for people to say thank you and support not only Mouse’s creative efforts but what Mouse does for the rest of the day. Mouse works in Drug Harm reduction and with vulnerable Children (linked to that). Mouse works for charities and does not take a salary; this means there is more money for them to spend on those who need it. Mouse thinks that every little helps and like everyone there is a mortgage and bills to be paid, and every penny Mouse can make, makes a difference.

Mouse is still not sure this is a good idea.

Patreon link: https://patreon.com/user?u=4146303


A Poorly Mouse Pt2: Shadows of the Past

Poorly Mouse Pt 2:

Thursday is bad day, Mouse has had a string of very painful Thursdays. This particular Thursday the pain was bad, but Mouse had an errand to run, so meeting up with someone who had not seen Mouse for a couple of months was something to look forward to. Sure it was fun, as fun as it could be, but she said Mouse looked pale and drawn. Mouse realised looking in the mirror, pale had become normal.

In the everyday Mouse hears, its good to have you back again, when for that precious time the pain dulls down. And Mouse knows that the pain makes for a shorter tempered much grouchier Mouse, not a Mouse that Mouse likes to be. Pain changes people, it makes them act out of character and be someone they are not. This maybe obvious with physical pain, and with two hospital admissions and a ghostly pallor, Mouse has no trouble explaining the physical pain. Harder is emotional pain, in fact that feels impossible.

Mouse has been trying to be productive, doing parts of bigger tasks or little tasks to make sure that Mouse is not languishing in a big pit of self pity and morphine. Today Mouse decided, for what reason Mouse will never know, to clear out old photographs. The great thing about digital is you can take lots of pictures, the bad thing about digital is that you can take lots of pictures. Another Mouse loves Instagram, posting and following, Mouse loves photography and art so perhaps naturally leans towards the visual media. Today was the easy, get rid of the irrelevant stuff, things downloaded to make a witty comment, or for events long past, erase duplicates and Mouse thought, easy stuff.

Scrolling through the Mouse’s life hurt, not a sharp stabbing pain, more of a slow cut into Mouse’s consciousness. Mouse was able to not relive the moments captured, but even scrolling there was the face of Mouse’s abuser, there were the invisible memories. Mouse knew the story behind the perfect moment, Mouse knew what consequence awaited, everything came back, preverbially flooding back. Mouse felt that urge to be back in those moments, but instead Mouse remembered the thoughts, the emotions, the intentions and the outcomes behind the picture. But most of all was the face, the smiling face, that public façade and show that hid what happened to Mouse.

Even clearing the past away brings the past back to life, it has to be handled. The question for Mouse now is does Mouse delete every picture with his abuser present, not just the ones of her alone, or does Mouse keep some. Some of those days were, happy, and Mouse clings to the happy moments, (even if they were drip fed). Mouse knows what Mouse’s intentions were, and Mouse wants to avoid being bitter about the past. To be consumed by bitterness only hurts the bitter, and Mouse hurting is exactly what Mouse’s abuser wants.

So Mouse deleted a few thousand, memories that the Mouse does not need, Mouse perhaps leaked a little remembering how Mouse had felt about certain previously favourite pictures, and Mouse smiled as more embarrassing ones went to digital oblivion. Mouse deleted friends of the past, in-laws nephews and nieces of the past. It hurt, remembering the betrayal of people the Mouse had helped so much, time as well as money, kindness and friendship given freely without thought of return, paid back with betrayal and lies. Say nothing, reason-past-and-futureperhaps, turn against the Mouse who had instigated so much help for you, why?

That is the past, it is there, it is a ghost that haunts. The past casts a shadow, however much the Mouse refuses to look back, it is there in front of the Mouse. Indeed, this week, looking to the future, the biggest problem the Mouse could encounter is ghosts from the past. Don’t look to the past, you are not going that way, how true, but when you look to the future that past might be in your way too.

The Daily Post: Daily Prompt – Disagree

The Daily Post: Daily Prompt – Disagree


I disagree with Clinton and I disagree with Trump,
Just like I disagree with a particularly smelly pump.
I disagree with hurt and I disagree with pain,
I very much disagree with this filthy smelly train.
I disagree with politics, lies and bluster,
I disagree with all the energy I can muster.
I disagree with cruelty , of course I do,
If you agree what sort of monster are you?
I disagree with this trendy barista’s coffee,
I completely disagree with fake antique toffee.
I disagree with fake people always on the take,
I disagree with journalists and all the trouble that they make.
You’re damn right I disagree with society and all its silly rules,
Just like I disagree with fashion that makes people look like tools.

Most of all I disagree with hate disguising its self as reason,
Hate against people should be a form of treason!
I disagree with prejudice that pretends that its sense,
I disagree with discrimination, equality its pretence.
I disagree with violence and disturbing the peace,
I disagree with wars even in the Middle East.
You can disagree with me with all your might,
As long as we drink tequila all through the night!

642 Things to Write About #3: Decribe a moment your were in physical pain.

642 Things to Write About #3: Decribe a moment your were in physical pain.

Today, yes today, Tuesday the 27th of September 2016, the pain comes in waves. The morphine helps, but Mouse is relctant to use it. Nothing else can ward off the balling up lying shaking.

In that moment, that is from 5 minutes to an hour, pain is not a feeling, pain is a consciousness. Mouse feels pain, sees pain, smells pain, pain intrudes and obliterates. Pain invades Mouse’s brain, Mouse gets confused, it is hard to get a thought to last. Mouse hears his speech slurring and cannot control it.

The pain it sears through Mouse’s detached body, braced tight against the ripping shear burning through Mouse’s very being, the dull thud, the burning tear, every breath tears through, every flinch searing, every thought pounding. Dr’s aske where, and Mouse point’s to where it starts, nothing happens.

Then the pain leaves, not completely, it goes to rest, seemingly exhausted from its assault. Its attack depleting its forces, or maybe it returns to gloat over its haul and plunder from its destruction. But it will return, waiting for something to be rebuilt, something to rip asunder, something to destroy.

Poetry Corner: Who Cares for Me

Who Cares for Me

Intrepid and bold, your story not yet told,
Tender and kind you make Nightingale proud,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

Without stumble or hesitation you gave your all,
Stayed up late, rose early to pack them off far and wide,
You cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

Worries and fears, and troubled brows,
Love poured out, wrapped them all and kept them safe,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

Listened attentively, cleared up the mess,
Drove here and there, more miles than a bus,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

Trusted and believed, gave your heart, your soul,
Went without, provided one and all,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

In childhood you nursed your sick,
Washed, clothed, fed, doctor, nurse and punching bag,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

Your heart was broken, your trust betrayed,
Tended your own wounds, the scars they fade,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

Abused, unloved, and cast aside,
Reliable and steadfast, strong and steady,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

Torn apart and broken, tears you cried,
Food on the table, and a shoulder for the tired,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

Disillusioned and lonely, never bitter, never harsh,
Still time for others, your home their harbour, their rest, just ask,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

You fed them all, you helped them grow,
On luscious soil, your flowers blossom and shine,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

Life moved on, barren but never dark,
The tender touch, the loving word you learned to live without,
Cared for others, never asked who cares for me.

Poetry Corner: Ex

Ex …

You held my hand and stroked my hair,
You stood and said you would always be there.

You kissed my lips and and touched my soul,
You took my all, my love you stole.

You told me lies to put me down,
You smashed my smile to make me frown.

You gave me gifts, built my prison,
You tore me apart and gave no reason.

You touched me tenderly and I let you in
You said the words and punched me with a grin.

You took my promise, my all and all,
You kicked me and made me fall.

You made me a life of suffering and pain,
You even convinced me that I was insane.

You destroyed it all, everything I built,
You made me feel all the guilt.

You walk free your head held so very high,
You never even told me why.

You go, walk on my dear,
You wont know what it is to fear.

You will reap what you sow
You know the truth will bring you sorrow.

The Ghosts of the Past

The Ghosts of the Past

Yesterday could have been difficult. Mouse has worked hard in this new place building a new life being the person Mouse always wanted to be. Those who know Mouse’s  past, are those who have been told, after they have gotten to know Mouse, and so yesterday was much of the same in that, people who Mouse knows were moved up a level of friendship by being introduced to Mouse’s history.

However, apart from being friends of the Mouse, a friendship Mouse is particularly fond of despite its very recent inception, they are people who foster highly at risk children, and very much part of the world of abuse and violence. Indeed, they care for the children of people like who the Mouse is supposed to be. Over the summer, they invited Mouse to help at a kid club they run, for everyone. Mouse loved this experience, rewarding and engaging, and something way outside Mouse’s comfort zone. The week passed and great fun had by all, Mouse acquired a friend of one of the girls in their care. Troubled, for sure, bright and endearing, certainly. Knowing her past, her spontaneous connection with the Mouse, was all the more surprising and perhaps remarkable. Mouse was then, of course, poorly, and in that time the Mouse became troubled, not because anything is wrong, instead troubled by the prospect of the past. Mouse does not like “what if”, “what if” is, for the most part, a futile attempt to predict and know what cannot be known, often about circumstances highly unlikely to happen. In this case, perhaps unlikely but not impossible.

What the Mouse knows is female abuser’s hold the trump cards, and his abuser has played her hand with skill, her word became truth, her story became her ticket to success. Mouse, of course, ran and hid, that is what a Mouse does. Mouse hoped that lack of evidence, lack of concurrent behaviour, lack of anything would be enough. Mouse was only half right, the Police walked away after 4 months of investigation, Mouse faced 7+ years in prison had one thing been true and he knows how deep they went. Social Services and the Family Court did not care, her words won that day and the official version became gospel, Mouse lives in that shadow.

However, that was then, it was past, but now its current, Mouse is writing it here, and last night it had to be told. It could have been awful, hellish; it wasn’t. Instead, they knew without the detail, they knew that despite the appearance of the Mouse, abuse was entirely possible because they had seen it in their professional lives. What they did was all that Mouse ever asks, they judged who they met, not a story about the Mouse, but the Mouse that sat before them.

And so, despite, what Mouse has learned, is an all too common a situation, Mouse gained optimism. Their words encouraged and lifted. Their assessments, honest as they were accurate were a balm to a worried soul. The Mouse left, yes sad, because the situation cannot be changed except by the passage of time, but also, because, Mouse’s new world and new life are exactly what Mouse wanted them to be. People really do see the real Mouse. So, Mouse is optimistic that future will continue to better than the past.

642 Thing to Write About #2: The First Time I Killed a Man

642 Things to Write About #2 : The First Time I Killed a Man:

The first time I killed a man, Patak mused; he had never thought about it and he had definitely never been asked. The first time, it was incredibly easy. I a nameless alley a small time wannabe hard man low-level low life drug dealer put a gun to his brother’s head. Instinctively Patak, drew aimed and fired a single shot that passed clean through the dealers head from the side. As he and his brother ran from the scene he didn’t see the mess left behind, and in the terror of fear of both reprisal and capture no emotion had broken through. Patak felt nothing, to this day, he had no sorry or remorse, the man, if you could call him that, was a waste of space and air. The dealer had jumped out at Hiran, and drawn the gun while Patak has stopped briefly to check out the insanely hot girl walking down the street. Patak never found out why, instead as he turned and saw the scene he drew the gun from his waistband and fired. His shot deadly accurate from hours and hour of range and hunting time. His gun perfectly maintained, the round a hollow point, meant that one shot was deadly.

Patak had killed a deer, a wild hog, he had put down a horse savaged by something wild, such was rural life, death was never that far away. But never a man, never a son, friend or collection of hopes and dreams. Till that day Patak had considered human life sacred, but in that moment, instinct trumped intellect, reaction won over philosophy, the protection of his younger Hiran was all that mattered. Patak could remember how he sat in his and Hiran’s apartment, shaking and sweating in fear, he could remember the words and tone of terror in Hiran’s voice and he asked what if after what if questions over and over again. He remembered how he snapped and regretted his anger instantly when Hiran’s chanting became too much to bear. It was still immediate and real how they waited and waited, listened attentively for the sound of heavy boots or the squeak of over priced trainers combined with the silence of foreboding that never came.

Instead, the next morning, still clothed in fear, Hiran and Patak left for work, greeted their family and carried on as if nothing had happened. The days went by, as they did Patak came to realise, nothing had happened. His action had become devoid of consequence, perhaps only he and Hiran were the only witnesses, more likely no one cared, and perhaps those who saw were glad to see Patak remove the garbage. Patak lapsed into musing again. And so Patak turned his attention to the question, when was the first time you killed a man? Patak looked at Carlos, the mighty Carlos bound with heavy tape to a chair in the disused warehouse where Carlos sent people to die, and Patak answered: “the first time I killed a man, Carlos, was when someone made the mistake of threatening my family”. Carlos probably never heard the next sound, the sound of a scrupulously maintained 1950s colt commander firing pin moving effortlessly as Patak took half a step back from the back of Carlos’ head.

Poetry Corner No:1

Mouse promised that he would not let this blog become a repository of that which was dark in Mouse’s soul, and that it would be somewhere to share creative output, in particular the written or spoken word. In the spirit of that came 642 things to write and now poetry corner.


Hallelujah, Hallelujah, a broken Hallelujah,

The song proclaims, I listen to the jab and cross of guilt,

I prickle, my heart starts to stab, I feel the eyes of the world piercing through me,

Alone the crowd, singing a different song, a different line.


Fear, fleeting at first, brave and daring by only few bars more,

The major isn’t lifting, I am the only on falling here,

Further away, the meaning gone, the heart gone, present in my very absence

Distant from the congregation, my conscience crucified my soul.


But I sing along, fitting in, like the traitor hoping no one sees,

No one will say anyway, but if they know, what if they know?

The secret out, Pandora’s box opened. A fraud silently exposed, imposter!

So I sing, breaking inside, wishing for the absolution I never give.