The Cave

Once
When I was a young boy
You yelled at me

Objectively
It wasn’t much
But it was enough

That night
I built a cave
Inside my mind

One that overlooked
A lake
Whose water
Perfectly reflected
The beauty
Of the nature
That surrounded it

The cave was secret
And strong
And safe

The lake was still
And soft
And serene

I quickly learnt
To hide in that cave
And to gaze upon the water of the lake
Loosing myself
In the reflection
Of a false reality
Made real
By fear

You never yelled at me again
In fact
We never really spoke
At least
Not about anything that mattered

As you pulled away from me
I found solace
Sitting in the cave
Whose creation you inspired

I’d look at the lake
Wishing
You’d appear
Wishing you would
Say
‘Son, won’t you come swim with me?’

But you never came

Later
When I left home
You didn’t fight for me
You didn’t speak or even acknowledge
My absence

But you did leave a mark on my mind

That cave
Is now haunted
By the silent screams
Of the words
You left unsaid

And that lake
Still has ripples
From the rocks
We never thew
Together

The beauty of nature is obscured
By your indifference

And
I no longer
Have anywhere safe
To hide

---

This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

The Derelict

The first thing you notice are his bare feet,
Black and dirty.
Lacking a chair, he squats.
Lacking a home, he squats.
The second thing you notice are his eyes,
Sunken and hollow.
Desperate.
You walk.
He sees you seeing him.
You walk faster.
He smiles wide.
His teeth are as broken as the dwelling he guards.
Shattered windows for a shattered soul.
He calls out.
You walk faster still.
His sunken eyes suddenly grow sharp.
He recognises an opportunity.
You wear things of value.
You are something of value.
A second voice joins the first,
And then a third.
They point.
They chuckle.
They stand.
Your wealth represents their high.
Your body represents their high.
You run.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

pathology and perversion

let’s go on an excursion
exploring pathology and perversion
where promises conflict with perception
and pleasure is found in aversion
where a moment can stretch into an eon
and an lifetime can vanish into confusion
where attention can dispel the illusion
and uncover the collective delusion
of a world desperate for absolution
yet unable or willing to find a solution
one where corruption and corporate collusion
trump harmony and empathetic inclusion
and the blind acceptance of institution
enables the systematic prosecution
of most every creature of evolution
distracted from their inevitable revolution
by the promise of a shiny substitution
via advertisements of unsustainable consumption
coupled with subliminal thought intrusion
money exchanged for species execution
accept the norm and practice blame diffusion
only to pray as final resolution
desperately hoping to avoid karmic retribution

---

This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

Once More

Once more
I wake
Finding myself adrift
Lost in thoughts
Of things
That will never happen
That can never happen

An ocean of possibility
Extends in every direction
Yet I fear
Leaving the safety
Of the anchor
Of the known

Once more
I wake
Finding myself both
Aimlessly drifting and unequivocally struck
Chastising myself
For not staying still
For not moving on

---

This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

terrified of nothing

this morning i woke
terrified of nothing
my anxiety already overworking itself
working me up to a state of near panic
i tried remembering that i am safe
it didn’t help
i tried breathing slowly
but i couldn’t
so my body tried to vomit out the nonexistent toxins of which it believed itself afflicted
i doubled over
i feel to my to my knees
and expelled everything
and in the slight pause
between the release
and the wiping of the mess off my beard
i had moment of reflection
i began to laugh
how silly i thought
to be so afraid of nothing
how ridiculous is my anxiety!
what a joke!
looking down at last nights dinner
i felt empowered
but that empowerment was quickly quashed
a dead weight in the depths of my gut began to form
a weight so heavy that even the most adamant
of retching couldn’t dislodge
the laughter ended
new thoughts replaced old
and i realised
that true nothingness
is beyond terrifying
that the opposite of fear isn’t calm
the opposite of sadness isn’t happiness
the opposite of hate isn’t love
no
the opposite of all of those things
the opposite of everything
is a nothingness so vast
so all encompassing
that i couldn’t comprehend a merest portion
awed by the paradoxical size of the nothingness
i wept
but then i laughed once more
for that weight in my gut
and the sheer terror that it evoked
told me
that for now at least
i am living on the opposite side of the nothingness
my anxiety is right
i should be afraid
but i should also
be grateful of the fact
that i can wake
terrified
vomiting
and unable
to slowly
breathe

---

This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

release

calm
within the eye
of the storm

joy
vicariously
obtained

warmth
besides
growing fire

clarity
from duty 
beyond self

peace
of a riptide’s
pull

focus
alongside
fear

awe
at primal
efficiency

pleasure
in
pain

release
through acceptance
of death

---

This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

set the darkness alight

when pain turns to might
the blind gain sight
but try as they might
they can’t handle the light
so accustomed to darkness
truth brings fright …

rodents delight in their self created blight
reluctantly fleeing the cat’s tyrannous bite
unable to fight they turn to flight
returned to the sewers
hiding till night
then forming packs of righteous right
they write of spite and unquenched appetite
they sight the slight and ways to incite
they observe the oversight and offer an invite
then wait
for their revolution
to set the darkness alight

---

This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

fear

why’d i give up
so much of myself
out of fear
of my own
blossoming
greatness?

---

This poem is from the book, ‘Poetry from a Dark Night of the Soul’.

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me at 36

i’m 36
crying and triggered
remembering when i was 8
remembering my stepfather
remembering the warnings that went unheard
remembering the pleas for help went unanswered
remembering the fear
remembering the confusion
remembering the choice to force myself to forget

remembering
crying
writing

remembering
crying
and writing more

desperately hoping that all this is somehow also healing

it’s my birthday and my family are watching me breakdown
i am stoned on weed
valium
memory
and music

tears
my ink

pain
my pen

words
my voice

… it’s time to blow out the candles and make a wish
perhaps i’ll live to wish another …

---

This poem is from the book Poetry from a Dark Night of the Soul

What is truth, Other than fiction?

What is truth,
Other than fiction?

An oil addition,
And political corruption,
From party contributions.

A narrative repeated,
Resources depleted,
Until resistance defeated.

A move to perception change,
From being considered strange,
Into unequivocally deranged.

Think this is a lie?
Look back and histories cry,
And witness those who die.

The best amongst us,
The ones who raised a fuss,
The holy and the righteous.

A bullet to silence
Those in defiance.
Those highlighting the hypocrisy of the violence.

‘But that’s the past’ you say,
‘It no longer happens that way’.
Perhaps, but wait until today is yesterday.

Then today’s leaders
Will be seen to be the cause of the bleeders,
Covert operations and illegal seizures.

But don’t you worry,
There’s nothing to be done,
It’s just how it is,
under our radiant sun.
They will continue taking,
At the barrel of a gun,
With the sign of a pen,
Or a secret bank run.

Knowing that truth is a lie
Won’t help you get by,
At best you’ll cry,
At worst your entire family will die.

Cause if you speak up too loudly,
They’ll come at you proudly,
Exclaiming that you’re dastardly,
And probably bastardly.

Your image will be dragged into the dust,
Your assets left to rust,
Your body buried below the crust.

So,
Open your mouth and swallow the narrative,
The truth is fiction and you will believe their prediction.

Keep quiet if you know what’s good for you,
Cause really, what good could you actually do? 

Just a full stop.
Just a conspiracy top.
Just a dead-beat flop,
with nothing more to drop.

Realise that truth you share won’t make it to air. But that air you used to share will be the last you ever dare.

---

This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

Why Do I Flee?

I rush off
Like I’ve got somewhere to be
Something to do
Or someone to see

But that’s a lie
Cause the reality is it’s just gonna be me
Scared and alone and devoid of esprit
Asking the same questions repeatedly
‘Why do I end conversations so quickly?
And why do I flee
When all that I crave is company?’

Daily
I attempt to reconcile this hypocrisy
But the internal enquiry
Just yields me a dark prophecy
It states with nihilistic glee that
‘Happiness is impossible to guarantee’

Oh well
At least my family
Can use this poetry on my obituary

So if you’re reading this
Please ignore the depravity
The dead should be looked upon positively
Their transgressions forgotten to the pasts obscurity

I’m left wondering if this pain a function of my pedigree
If it was meant to be
Or if I brought it upon me
Cursed by fate and my family tree
Or by god and a world that rewards functionality
And profit derived from cruelty
Take what you can and fuck all that disagree
Prosperity if your right as long as you are free
As long as you agree

I’m so angry
And tired
And disproportionately craving insobriety
The only thing keeping me here is my children’s plea
Daddy won’t you come play with me?

---

This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

Atelophobia: The Fear Of Imperfection

The fear of imperfection.
The fear of not being good enough.

Crippling inaction.
Stuttered words.
No self-worth.

The fear of failure causing failure.
Not inability, talent or a lack of opportunity.

Just fear.
Just anxiety.
Just unattainable standards.

Standards put upon by myself.
Standards forced upon me by the world.

Others can fail.
Others can be imperfect.
Others can have fun.

Just stop.
Please don’t placate me.

I know ‘no one cares about that stuff’.
I know ‘we all make mistakes’.
I know ‘I’m only human’.

Reason doesn’t stop the thoughts.
By definition a phobia is illogical.

My only solace comes from the diagnosis.
Knowing that I am not alone.
Perfectly imperfect, together.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Swallow The Poison

Swallow the poison
Trade your day
Time for money
Life’s wasting away

Work to live
Not to thrive
It’s all you can do
Just to survive

Take a moment
Look around
This is your life
What have you found?

Your kids are old
Your friends are gone
Your dreams are unmet
But you can’t move on

You earn just enough
To cover the bills
You know what would happen
If you took ill

You’d lose your job
And then the house
Then the car
Then the spouse

So every day
No matter what
You swallow your poison
The only hope you’ve got

To earn enough
To survive the night
And do it all again
The daily fight

 Not quite the fairytale
You were promised in youth
But let’s be honest
No-one could accept the truth

It’s the daily grind
Called that for a reason
To hope for other wise
Is demonized as treason 

We are in this together
The workers plea
Collective repression
Then distracted depravity

Work for the weekend
Then pay to play
Porn, liquor, and drugs
Then some takeaway
 

It’s not in your budget
But you convince yourself it’s okay
Cause it’s all you can do
To survive another workday

Don’t think of the future
It’s far to long
30 years more of this
What could possibly go wrong?

But hey!
Doesn’t retirement actually seem good?
Finally you have the time needed
To do everything you wish you now could

So you delay gratification
Of most every form of joy
Problem is you’ll be too old by then
To enjoy it anyway

Still you delude yourself
It’s part of the poison
Swallowing your dreams
Then acting with caution

Besides those weekend benders
Leave you with little spare wealth
With little motivation
With diminishing health

You sometimes wonder
How you ended up here
Overwhelmed by resentment
You crack another beer

‘It is what it is’
‘Inflation is high’
‘It capitalisms fault’
To yourself you justify

There goes the weekend
It’s time for another dose
Off to work again
Hunting that promotion grandiose

A different brand of poison
A variation of the old promise
You’ll get paid far more
Cause you’re no longer a novice

In your new role
You think you will finally be free
Until it dawns on you
All that extra responsibility

Even less time
For those that you love
For the friends you don’t see
For all the hobbies you let go of

But what other choice
Could you realistically pursue?
If you changed path now
Only chaos would ensue

So you swallow the poison
You trade your day
Exchanging time for money
Letting your life waste away

---

This poem is from the book Wage Slave, The Unpaid Overtime Edition

Pandemic

Our minds are racing,
Our mood oscillating,
Endlessly contemplating,
Ruminating,

Anxiety,
And insobriety,
Spreading through society,
Bored with no variety,

Stay home and wait
Call your mate,
Think straight,
Commiserate,

Pretend,
Online spend,
Try to comprehend,
How this ever happened,

Presidents be acting competent,
Their faces prominent,
Acting dominant,
Imminent,

Woe,
Moving slow,
Just for show,
Really they don’t know,

Still they continuously interview,
Securing their revenue,
Sweet rendezvous,
Hitherto,

Corruption,
Excess consumption,
Designed to function,
Greed and false assumption,

Pull it all down,
Destroy the crown,
And town,
Drown,

Free,
We be,
Living in glee,
If we just agree,

To act as one,
Make it done,
Leave none,
Outrun.

---

This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry