Memories Compress

Memories compress,
In the recess of the mind.
Thoughts confined,
By the passing of time.

A shine dedicated
To a past divine.
The horrors expressed
So totally mine.

Waiting untouched,
A defensive confine.
Dissociated reality,
A false sublime.

Seen from above,
I’m left in a bind.
A fist is raised,
Told to stay in line.

Flashes of vision,
Pain a bright shine.
A hollow city,
Dysfunctional and blind.

Memory as a curse,
A picture of crime.
Cause and effect,
We’re both doing time.

It’s all guess work,
Just a twisted game,
Played against the self,
On the battleground of shame.

I don’t know much,
My brain is maimed.
Functional enough
To get itself tamed.

Forever questioning,
Looking to blame.
No way to win,
Just playing the game.

Victory is simple,
Just stave off dying.
Survive the day,
Then breakdown crying.

Because memories compress,
Forgotten with time.
Until you’re stupid enough,
To open your mind.

---

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

Back To Scrolling

Mindless scrolling
Looking for validation online
Filling the time
Filling the void

Someone just liked my post
Fleeting happiness

Back to scrolling
Change apps
Scrolling again
Change apps back

Another like, but not from someone I like

I’m offended
Comment
I’m offended
Share

I wonder what she’s doing?
Damn, she’s still happy with him

Food as art
Bodies as art
Life as art
How unattainable
I’m jealous

You have memories from seven years ago
Cringe

10 things you won’t believe
10 times they got it wrong
10 posts to distract you from your own existence

Screen time report
Usage up from last week

Porn
Porn
Porn
Shame
Close all open tabs
Delete the latest hour

Half formed thought
Tweet
OMG, a retweet!
Just a bot

Bad news
More bad news
Memes about the news
Memes about memes
Sharing memes

I should work
Scroll
I should clean
Scroll
I should exercise
Scroll
I need to sleep
Scroll

Check one app
Check another
Check a third app
Recheck the first

Back to scrolling

---

This poem is from the book Bound to the Wings of a Butterfly

Give It A Look

I’ve just released a new poetry book,
If you like my work, please give it a look.

It’s dark and edgy, full of adult themes,
It’s an exploration of reality, where nothing’s as it seems.

It’s a product of years of writing to heal,
If you’re a mental health buddy it will certainly appeal.

Also if you want some sharp social commentary,
Or if you’re looking for content that’s existentially scary.

Or if you want to see unique ways to twist a rhyme,
Or poetry so good it will seem like a crime.

Or an in-depth look at the depths of humanity,
Or joy, love, and dark depravity.

Or if you’re just looking for something new,
Then do I have the perfect idea for you.

Please considering giving my book a buy,
It’s called, ‘Bound to the Wings of a Butterfly’

Read it on paperback, hardcover, eBook or audio,
However you like, it’s ready to go!

---

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

On The Brink

I’m on the brink,
I’m out of sync,
I need time to think.

To catch the link
Between the words I speak
To my shrink,
And my kink,
And the thoughts I drown in drink.

I’m gonna get some new ink,
A new vice in which to sink,
A new way to link,
A new way to rethink,
The chink in my personality stink
And my inability to stay in sync.

---

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

Plague Rat

I am a plague rat
A covid cat
A diseased gnat

My lineage?

The OG bat
That went splat
In the mouth
Of some pratt

Or perhaps it was a lab
Concocted by a Chinese bureaucrat
Or an elite crooked hat
Or a corrupt diplomat
Or a Rockefeller kind of aristocrat
All as a part of some Illuminati format
To make the economy fall flat
Allowing the aliens to come take our habitat
While we chitchat in hazmat
Debating the origins of the fruit bat spat

Did I correctly read the online thermostat?
The stupidity of keyboard combat?
The multitudes of conspiracy tit for tat?

All I know is that I feel like chat
I gotta isolate with a seven day forced sabbat
With nothing new to look at
Other than Putin ignoring every Geneva caveat

Is he a Hitler copycat?
Will there be a successful coup d'etat?
Should I stockpile water and fat?

Truth is,
Worrying about would war three
is making my mind far more flat
than anything this disease brought to my doormat.

How about that?

---

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

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

Angry

i’m angry
at you
for not being
more
like me

---

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.

---

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

A Flower

A flower blooms,
Its beauty unrecognised.
No depth, no feeling,
Only cold calculation, a knowing.

This is life without meaning,
Two-dimensional reality. Fact.

Who am I to deserve this?
Who am I not to?

The flower dies,
Its decay unrecognised.
Just another shade of grey,
Colouring this dull world.

---

This poem is from the book Words On A Page

New & Fancy

Hey there, I’ve made something new and fancy
It’s a poetry collection that’s raw and antsy
It’s words on a page for the bold and chancy
It’s sure to satisfy even my sycophancy
It’s writing to heal; practical emotional necromancy
It will transform your mind into a field of pansy

It’s called ‘Bound to the wings of a butterfly’, why don’t you give it a glancy?