POETRY
Living expressions of inner work. Offered as a glimpse of the process towards radical self-acceptance, healing, and growth.
Complementing The Future
By complementing the future
She crafted the present.
Her words revealing a truth
Others couldn’t yet see.
Not for lack of trying,
But because she hadn’t yet spoken.
The truth was merely a dream,
Waiting for her birth it into reality.
Now here, its eternal nature is manifest.
The future, now present, informs the past,
And thus, her words were true before she ever spoke them.
This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken
Looking In
I close my eyes.
Where once there was vividness
There is now a vague blur.
Stories and visions intermingle
A kaleidoscope of confusion.
Words and non-words alike
Are spoken and responded to.
The allure of reality is lost,
Replaced by the bliss of the abyss.
The joy of not knowing
Is ever more tempting.
Closing my eyes to avoid it all,
To get to where release was once felt.
But no more.
The avalanche of memory greets me.
I cannot escape the pain inside.
I long to let it go.
To let it all go.
I close my eyes.
Where once there was vividness
There is now a vague blur.
Stories and visions intermingle
A kaleidoscope of confusion.
Words and non-words alike
Are spoken and responded to.
The allure of reality is lost,
Replaced by the bliss of the abyss.
The joy of not knowing
Is ever more tempting.
Closing my eyes to avoid it all,
To get to where release was once felt.
But no more.
The avalanche of memory greets me.
I cannot escape the pain inside.
I long to let it go.
To let it all go.
This poem is from the book Words On A Page
A System Of Inequality
It feels like
I’ve been preparing
My entire life
For a moment that will never come
My body is tense
My mind is sharp
Yet I have nothing to do
With such focus
There is no enemy to fight
No emergency to survive
No monumental struggle to overcome
Nothing other than this day
And the next and the one after that
What glory is there to be found
In the daily grind?
How can I be proud of defeating
The mere anxiety of surviving the moment?
. . .
I crave catastrophe
And ache for the apocalypse
Not as a nihilist
But as a person without purpose
There’s little joy to be found in a job
Creating just to consume
Producing just to procreate
Done daily until death
I am a man without meaning
Readying myself for revelation
When survival isn’t assured life is serious
The useless artefacts will fall away
What actually matters will materialise
Focus will be forced towards functionality
Distracting decadences will be discarded
Leaving nothing but the struggle of life
Perhaps then I’ll find real purpose
Maybe existence will feel equanimous
. . .
How privileged
Am I
To lament
The ease of my life
I am blessed
To have never seen war
Or suffering
I am blessed
Yet that blessing
Feels like a curse of meaning
Without an enemy to fight
Without an obstacle to overcome
All this feels dulled
Life feels like a shadow
A mockery of everything I was promised
Thus I create my own demons
Faceless oppressors
That cannot be seen
Or overcome
Then I cry about my problems
Like they actually exist
Writing angsty poems
From a place of privilege
. . .
As a child
I learnt
Vigilance
To survive
I slept light
A knife under my pillow
Waiting for an attack
That attack never came
But I still sleep light
And have made my body into a weapon
I am still vigilant
Waiting for the attack
That will never come
We live
In a system
Of inequality
So utterly brainwashed
Into believing our failures
Stem from inability
To operate within the system
Not the system itself
But what choice do we have?
Who are we
To question
The very system
That raised us?
That fed us?
That educated us?
How can we possibly
Step outside
The paradigm
Of our reality?
This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken
A Simulacrum of Thought
Every morning
I rise with the sun
Watching with awe
The soft vibrancy
Of cloud and colour
Each sunrise uniquely its own
Yet so similar
That its subtlety
Is often lost
A simulacrum of thought
Overlayed upon reality
Obscuring the beauty
Of the moment
How much of life
Have I lost
In this way?
This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken
Just A Fiction
My entire sense of self
Is supplanted
By that one undefinable feeling
Of a nothingness with substance
A heavy emptiness
Filled
With a choking void
The screaming silence
Of a statue
Suffocating under glass
Even in the moment
When his hand
Struck my face
It didn’t feel real
Even in the moment
When she exposed herself
And approached me
It didn’t feel real
Nothing has ever felt real
Except the feeling of unreality
My entire life
Feels like a play
Just words in a book
Only real
When it’s read
And then quickly forgotten
The trauma downplayed
Because we both know
it’s just a fiction
Created for your entertainment
This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken
A Requiem For What Could Have Been
Last night
I dreamt
Of my father’s death
The slow pathetic decline
Of a worthless man
Was reformed into
A noble sacrifice
A resilient stand against oppression
An act to be proud of
I knew I was dreaming
Yet I preferred to remain
Bamboozled and blinded
By the beautiful facade
In the dream
I wept freely
For a man
I understood
Cared about
And loved
In my memories
I grew distant
From a man
I didn’t understand
Care about
Or love
I woke conflicted
Are my dreams
Telling me
That my memories
Are fiction?
That the feelings
Felt in the facade
Are more fact
Than the fear
And confusion?
Or perhaps
I’m only questioning
Because
My reality was retched
And that dream
Like others of it’s kind
Are a requiem
For what could have been
This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken
I Am A Contradiction
I am a contradiction,
A social inadequacy.
Stifled rage.
Missed opportunities.
Goals unfulfilled.
Talent unrecognised,
Talent wasted.
I am a contradiction,
A falsifiable hypothesis.
All talk.
No action.
An echo chamber.
Hypocrisy recognised,
Hypocrisy shared.
I am a contradiction,
A functional mess.
Habit forming.
Constant apologies.
A shell of shame.
Surviving the past,
Surviving the day.
I am a contradiction,
A product of chance.
Lucky guesses taken.
Sage words heard.
A creature of my environment.
Adapting to conform,
Adapting to escape.
I am a contradiction,
A point of difference.
Memories informing.
Self-educating.
Future planning.
Breaking the cycle,
Breaking myself.
I am a contradiction,
A model of possibility.
Disciplined action.
Introverted contemplation.
A father.
Driven to change,
Driven to act.
I am a contradiction,
A self-appointed leader.
Lived experience.
Proven results.
Trending upwards.
Sharing my failures,
Sharing lessons learnt.
I am a contradiction,
A hypocrite with a voice.
Soul on display.
Hunting an ideal.
Coming up short.
Finding myself,
Finding my tribe.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Adulting, Would Not Recommend
Adulting, would not recommend.
There’s just too damn much to comprehend.
Work, work, work, work, no time for my friend.
Now look at that, my life’s about to end.
I do not rate,
My current adult state,
Always running late,
Trying to put food on my plate.
Money, money, money, I never have enough.
Not for the rent, bills or any fun stuff.
There’s no wonder why we are all so gruff,
Yelling on the inter-webs, acting so tuff.
It’s just back pain,
And weight gain.
It’s rushing all day,
With no time to play.
It’s the not knowing,
Yet having to keep going.
It’s our parents’ lack of understanding,
Of what our world is actually demanding,
Of our real struggle to maintain our standing,
No chance to get ahead, no interest compounding.
Boomers think they know the score,
They’re just lucky to be born after the war.
A time of prosperity let their incomes soar,
Making them think there will always be more.
Criticising us with self-righteous impunity,
For squandering a ‘glorious opportunity’.
In a world of growing disunity,
How can they expect such immunity?
Thing is, we can’t fight back,
There is no true enemy to attack.
Just another generation protecting their own,
And yelling from the safety of their home.
Besides when would we have the time to fight?
The third job’s got us up all night.
Adulting, I would not recommend.
But please let’s no longer pretend,
That our problems are gonna magically mend,
By venting with an angry tweet send.
You could protest it on the street,
With the 99% speaking with their feet,
Or perhaps a BLM meet,
Yell, scream and hope to defeat.
But the problem is that they have the power,
They can wait a longer hour.
They can direct the tear gas shower,
With the riot police to make us cower.
Also did I mention, the world is warming?
There’s racist divisions and politicians performing.
Economic collapse from COVID’s storming,
And European war is transforming.
Too many problems to simultaneously comprehend,
Let alone act with any hope to end.
There’s no opportunity to transcend,
Only ways to further offend.
Adulting, would not recommend.
Adulting, would not recommend.
There’s just too damn much to comprehend.
Work, work, work, work, no time for my friend.
Now look at that, my life’s about to end.
I do not rate,
My current adult state,
Always running late,
Trying to put food on my plate.
Money, money, money, I never have enough.
Not for the rent, bills or any fun stuff.
There’s no wonder why we are all so gruff,
Yelling on the inter-webs, acting so tuff.
It’s just back pain,
And weight gain.
It’s rushing all day,
With no time to play.
It’s the not knowing,
Yet having to keep going.
It’s our parents’ lack of understanding,
Of what our world is actually demanding,
Of our real struggle to maintain our standing,
No chance to get ahead, no interest compounding.
Boomers think they know the score,
They’re just lucky to be born after the war.
A time of prosperity let their incomes soar,
Making them think there will always be more.
Criticising us with self-righteous impunity,
For squandering a ‘glorious opportunity’.
In a world of growing disunity,
How can they expect such immunity?
Thing is, we can’t fight back,
There is no true enemy to attack.
Just another generation protecting their own,
And yelling from the safety of their home.
Besides when would we have the time to fight?
The third job’s got us up all night.
Adulting, I would not recommend.
But please let’s no longer pretend,
That our problems are gonna magically mend,
By venting with an angry tweet send.
You could protest it on the street,
With the 99% speaking with their feet,
Or perhaps a BLM meet,
Yell, scream and hope to defeat.
But the problem is that they have the power,
They can wait a longer hour.
They can direct the tear gas shower,
With the riot police to make us cower.
Also did I mention, the world is warming?
There’s racist divisions and politicians performing.
Economic collapse from COVID’s storming,
And European war is transforming.
Too many problems to simultaneously comprehend,
Let alone act with any hope to end.
There’s no opportunity to transcend,
Only ways to further offend.
Adulting, would not recommend.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Trying
Here I am,
Trying once again.
Trying to create something beautiful,
Trying to glimpse eternity,
Trying to distil a moment.
Here I am,
Trying once again.
Trying to impress,
Trying to state my worth,
Trying to be something more.
Here I am,
Trying once again.
Trying to reconcile talent with torment,
Trying to balance fun with functionality,
Trying to see the ramifications of reality.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Red Signs and Rainbows
Red signs and rainbows,
Nanna’s gone away,
Mum and Dad are stressed,
So many bills to pay,
Empty schools
Abandoned shops,
Empty playgrounds,
Broken hopes,
A fever dream,
Days drifting together,
Visiting hours closed,
Only memories last forever,
Daddy’s started drinking,
Mummy sleeps a lot,
Daddy’s getting angry,
Mommy’s lost the plot,
They are always here,
Adapt to the new norm
Survive till night,
Weather the storm.
Stuck in this house,
All is gone,
Nothing to do,
No place to mourn.
Flatten the curve,
Keep your distance,
Unemployment lines,
Struggling for subsistence.
Protesters amassing,
Ignoring science,
Just making it worse,
With their continued defiance.
Red signs and rainbows,
My child just wants to play,
He is going stir crazy
Every damn day.
This poem is inspired by the book, ‘How To Write Evocative Poetry’.
You can read some chapters from the book, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.