POETRY
Living expressions of inner work. Offered as a glimpse of the process towards radical self-acceptance, healing, and growth.
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God's Love
*** Trigger Warning ***
He told me I was special,
And gave me all the perks.
Held my hand through prayer,
And showed me how the system works.
He said it would be our little secret,
Kept between him, me, and God.
Told me that I was a good boy.
Summoned me with that little nod.
He taught me what was holy.
To trust in the divine word.
That my doubts were of the devil,
To not trust in the absurd.
He spoke of the afterlife,
Spewing words of eternal damnation.
The trials of earth trivial,
Compared to the day of revelation.
He showed me how a soft caress,
Can feel like the stab of a demon.
That he held all the power,
And that God’s love tastes like semen.
He demonstrated the church’s power,
By denying all my accusations.
How could a priest be sullied,
By a young boy’s fabrications?
He was eventually punished,
They moved him to a new town.
Gave him a new flock,
Other boy’s souls to drown.
He died as he lived,
Safe and admired,
Protected by his brethren,
A biblical patriarchy conspired.
He left me broken,
Mind, body, soul.
What he did destroyed my faith,
Leaving me not whole.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
When You Look Inside
When you look inside,
Where does your attention go?
An internal energy,
A power,
A flow.
When you observe the breath,
What do you now see?
A play of consciousness,
A freedom,
Serenity.
When you move the body,
What do you feel?
A sense of integrity,
A space,
An ideal.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Stop Rushing
Stop rushing.
Take a break.
You are not lazy.
Trust that you will get it done.
You always do.
To perform optimally,
You need to rest.
You need to recover.
You need to heal.
You need to take a breath.
So do so.
Give yourself permission.
Pour the cup of tea.
Feel its warmth.
Taste its subtly.
The world will still be there.
Your work will be waiting for you.
Return to it with fresh eyes.
Embrace it with new energy.
Attack the day.
Stop rushing.
Take a break.
You are not lazy.
Trust that you will get it done.
You always do.
To perform optimally,
You need to rest.
You need to recover.
You need to heal.
You need to take a breath.
So do so.
Give yourself permission.
Pour the cup of tea.
Feel its warmth.
Taste its subtly.
The world will still be there.
Your work will be waiting for you.
Return to it with fresh eyes.
Embrace it with new energy.
Attack the day.
This poem is from the book ‘Reflections of the Self, The Poetry, Insights, and Wisdom Of Silence’.
Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, or Audiobook.
The Fear of Imperfection
Atelophobia
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.
Atelophobia
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 Reflections of the Self, The Poetry, Insights, and Wisdom Of Silence
healing
sadness and joy
in the face of healing
with you
my love
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
He Leans In
He leans into life,
Taking everything on,
No half measures,
Or faked excitements.
He doesn’t lie,
Not about his feelings,
Not about his intent,
He is what he does.
Whole in every moment,
A guiding light,
A beacon of the present,
He is right there with you.
Watching you work,
Listening to your voice,
Copying your actions,
Always accepting without judgement.
He asks but one question,
Not with his words,
But with his entire being,
Do you love me as I love you?
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
God Asked
God asked the man,
Why did you choose to die?
I saw no point in existence,
I couldn’t fathom a reason why.
I couldn’t stay focused,
I couldn’t hold down work.
I’d just wait for the day to end,
to sleep away the murk.
Every day was the same,
I’d already lived it through.
What was the point of repeating
when there wasn’t anything new?
What about the small changes,
the gems of love and life?
What about the lessons learnt
from surviving hardships and strife?
True, I did feel most alive
when things were at their worst.
But how is that reason to live,
just hoping to be cursed?
I could handle the drama
but not the monotony,
nor the vagueness of existence,
nor humanity’s cacophony.
I would sit alone,
I would sit in the dark,
I would sit and listen and
my mind would remark.
Highlighting my failures,
reminding me of lost dreams.
Showing me bad outcomes
and my own devilish schemes.
Where were you God,
when I needed you the most?
Why’d you only start talking
now that I am a ghost?
I was talking the whole time.
I was in the warmth of the sun,
I was in your kid’s smiles,
their laughter and fun.
I was the crash of the waves,
the vision of the moon,
the spring flower’s scent,
the young lover’s boon.
I was the quenching of thirst,
the purr of a kitten,
the pillow at night,
the book well written.
I could go on
but I think you now know,
I was with you always,
even when you were low.
Ah God, you don’t get it,
your words were too easy to miss.
What with all the noise,
with our collective descent into the abyss.
How could I just stop and look?
How could I listen to the bird’s song?
How could I take a breath,
When everything was going wrong?
It isn’t my place to save you,
nor can I fix your life.
I can only remind you,
that there is something beyond the strife.
That even in the midst of suffering
there are small joys to behold.
But you are right my child,
perhaps I should have been more bold.
No God, I was also wrong.
You know this was my last thought,
I could fix every problem but this one.
Oh how my family will be distraught.
God thought for a moment,
then asked the man,
If I sent you back to Earth
would you change your plan?
I will do my best,
but I make no guarantee.
I will attempt to listen,
I will attempt to see.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
God Spoke
It’s easy to feel a little woke,
just after you’ve taken a toke.
To feel as if God spoke,
as if you’re the only one in on the joke,
as if you hold a beautiful truth, a fire to stoke.
Thus beseeched, you spread the message under religion’s cloak.
‘This is what you should do before you croak.’
‘This is how you should treat the downtrodden and the broke.’
‘And this is how a lady should treat her bloke.’
Some listen,
some provoke,
word spreads,
the masses convoke.
Pledging their swords,
falling under your yoke.
Pledging their houses,
their bills, and their bespoke.
Then, comes the final solution,
you begin your masterstroke.
You enlist the will of the people,
with His words you doth evoke.
You tell them your divine vision,
you tell them how you awoke,
you tell them of their enemies,
their neighbours who provoke.
Now they’re almost ready,
another push and they won’t revoke.
‘Gather the Kinsfolk
and force them to work.
In the fields and the factories,
in the forests cutting grand oak.
Make them build our weapons,
great waves of fire that will soak.
Then we’ll make our pilgrimage,
to leave nothing but smoke.
Do not hesitate to obey me.
do you think I misspoke?
Do not hesitate to obey me,
do you think my visions mere sunstroke?
Do not hesitate to obey me,
or you too will choke.’
Yes,
it is easy to feel as if God spoke.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
enraged
the world is too noisy
it asks too much
it never stops moving
and it’s never got enough
the world is too noisy
it asks too much
it never stops moving
and it’s never got enough
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Empires Fall
Empires fall, by the blood of friends.
Monarchs die, by the blood of friends.
Systems collapse, by the blood of friends.
Revolutions are pain.
A bullet in the back of the head for a select few, followed by starvation and desperation for millions more.
Oppression will inevitably return. The strong will rise. Self appointed kings by another name.
Hiding atrocity behind their new morals.
Hiding greed behind their new distribution methods.
Different faces.
Different words.
Same results.
Public privation.
Private ostentation.
They will tell us that the revolutionary heroes are to be honoured, but not replicated. That the time for violent action has passed. That we need to solidify our gains.
They will tell us that we are in it together. That in order to rebuild, we will all have to work. That our blood, sweat and tears are to be the mortar of the future. That our bodies are to be the stones.
They will glorify our sacrifices. A mass indoctrination of self-flagellation for the state.
Our pain will be our pleasure.
Our bond to the revolutionaries of the past.
Our holy pilgrimage.
Our right.
Our duty.
Our purpose.
We will police ourselves. Pulling down any and all who even so much as attempt to rise above the norm.
Equality of outcome for all.
Yet we will simultaneously accept our new leaders’ lavishness.
For they are men of action.
They are keeping us safe.
They are the bull front of the revolution.
They are the shield of security.
They are the sword of justice.
They protect us from the other.
They convert the heathens.
They spread the revolution.
They show us how our sacrifices at home will lead to our success globally.
They tell us that empires will fall, that monarchs will die, and that systems will collapse.
We just need to make more bullets for the backs of the heads, and more sons to put them there.
We just need to work more.
We just need to eat less.
We just need to sacrifice.
Revolutions are pain, and empires will fall.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Dissociated Rage
I wake,
Writhing against invisible bonds.
Whispered screams
Echo down the empty caverns of my mind.
The more I understand,
The more I wish for ignorance.
Pain and pleasure hurt the same,
Numbed inebriation my only relief.
Dissociated rage gives way to disjointed understandings.
Terrifying realisation gives way to impotent connections.
It hurts.
Everything hurts.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
death
death
is not true
but it seems like
it is
do not mourn
my passing
life isn’t complete
until it ends
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Creating A Monster
My mind creates this world.
How can you say I am not God?
Every character, every scene, every aspect;
All a variation of myself.
Created in my image, created in my mind.
Both with and without intention.
The universe forever expanding
Inwardly as it does outwardly.
Distortions of reality,
More elegant than any alternate world.
Why should I leave?
Here I am something,
Simultaneously at, in and above myself.
A beautiful story of consciousness,
Played in a theatre of dreams.
Time passes, I open my eyes.
My focus wanes and I begin to forget.
Only the feelings remain,
Glorious certainty, a guide to my higher self.
Fragments of my truth are written and told.
Just a mere representation, a lie.
Imagination takes hold,
Corrupting, corroding, filling the gaps.
Stop. Let me remember.
Let me feel again,
I want the unadulterated truth.
I want to be back there again,
Where I feel divine,
Where it feels right.
Where I don't feel like a character
In someone else's dream.
I want to be present,
Both creating and existing simultaneously.
Doubts creep in,
It was just a beautiful distortion of reality,
A test of faith. Nothing to see here,
Move along. I am awake. It's gone.
Take away a man’s hope
and lace him up with dope.
Abuse him as a child
and expose him to the wild.
Show him that God does not exist
and remove all reasons to persist.
Put him under significant pressure
and reveal the joys of cardinal pleasure.
Add to that some mental illness
as fractured minds increase in willingness.
Explain that societal rules are collective fiction
that everyone follows with utmost conviction.
Tell him to observe and play the game
to patiently wait until it’s time to take aim.
Indoctrinate him into an extreme ideology
Explain all injustice through the lens of this philosophy.
Teach him that bad people only get punished in stories
and that in reality they die old, basking in glories.
Finally, give him the ability to read and learn.
Now there’s nothing left to do, but watch the world burn.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Click
Hold still. No you need to smile more.
Click.
How can a picture be perfect,
If people are perfectly posed?
How can it be a representation of reality,
When you stopped reality to create it?
How does crafting an ideal,
Justify the destruction of the moment?
And when you look back over the album
Do you think it will all be worth it?
Not like that, move over. Pause.
Click.
It didn’t just happen,
Every aspect of it contrived.
A list of people to invite,
A list of rituals to perform,
A list of words to say,
A list of food to eat,
A list of tears to shed,
A list of clothes to don,
A list of those to thank,
A list of songs to dance,
A list of jokes to play.
A list of pictures to pose,
To prove that the boxes were ticked.
A list of pictures to post,
To show that it was all done.
A list of pictures to paste,
To evoke the right emotion.
Shuffle over. Too much. Back a bit.
Click.
You got the perfect picture,
I hope it warms your heart.
You got the perfect picture,
I hope it is enough.
You got the perfect picture,
I hope you’ll get another.
You got the perfect picture,
and that’s all you’ve got.
Let’s do that again. Smile more this time.
Click.
The one you’ll show your friends,
To gloat about that perfect night.
The one you’ll show your family,
As a way to win the fight.
The one you show your kids,
To warm their darkest night.
The one you’ll show yourself,
When you want to remember it right.
Click.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Caged Animal
Isolation.
Pacing.
Caged.
No hunt.
No kill.
No thrill.
Domesticated.
Trained.
Punished.
I want to run.
I want to fight.
I want to fuck.
Your protection wasn’t asked for.
Your protection isn’t needed.
Your protection is a slow death.
I am safe.
Trapped behind bars.
Never missing a meal.
Stuck in a comfortable rut.
Stuck in your routine.
Stuck and on display.
Nature sanitised.
Whitewashed reality.
A parody.
Just one slip.
Just one mistake.
And you’re mine.
Devoured.
Devoured screaming.
Devoured alive.
Your fault.
You caged me.
You attempted to tame me.
You put me here.
You put me on display.
You dropped your guard.
Lulled.
Hypnotised.
Dazed.
Cornered.
Primal.
Rage.
This is evolution.
This is inevitability.
This is life.
Isolation.
Pacing.
Caged.
No hunt.
No kill.
No thrill.
Domesticated.
Trained.
Punished.
I want to run.
I want to fight.
I want to fuck.
Your protection wasn’t asked for.
Your protection isn’t needed.
Your protection is a slow death.
I am safe.
Trapped behind bars.
Never missing a meal.
Stuck in a comfortable rut.
Stuck in your routine.
Stuck and on display.
Nature sanitised.
Whitewashed reality.
A parody.
Just one slip.
Just one mistake.
And you’re mine.
Devoured.
Devoured screaming.
Devoured alive.
Your fault.
You caged me.
You attempted to tame me.
You put me here.
You put me on display.
You dropped your guard.
Lulled.
Hypnotised.
Dazed.
Cornered.
Primal.
Rage.
This is evolution.
This is inevitability.
This is life.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
but a feather
i am but a feather
drifting between worlds
forced to float
on the whims of the wind
perhaps
one day
i’ll be allowed
to rest
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
If I was to die, would you cry?
Would you look up at the sky and scream why?
Would you lament being shy for not asking after I?
Please do not deny.
Just know that I am forgetting my why.
You don’t need to be a spy to see that I don’t have the energy to try.
Truth is, I’ve barely enough to sigh.
No longer spry, no longer able to apply, no longer able to fly.
How can I amplify? How can I stay wry? How can I make that pie?
I’m just a lonely guy, trying to imply the need for you to reply.
Perhaps I need to demystify before I say goodbye.
Perhaps I need to clarify before I horrify.
Perhaps I need to verify before I falsify with this note left to justify the lullaby.
Don’t worry. These words are a lie, just a sly attempt to identify.
Just an attempt to pre-emptively reclassify when you turn a blind eye.
Just an attempt to declassify and diversify the constant misapply.
Just an attempt to edify you on the thoughts that multiply, the need to certify, the ennui.
I see how others get by. They gratify and deify; they codify and fortify. Believing that the Mystify will specify how they should diversify.
But not me.
I can’t believe that rallying cry.
Life has no retry.
Just a constant attempt to scrape by under a dark sky.
Just a vain attempt to signify.
Just cause and effect bound to the wings of a butterfly.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Birdsong
waking up
to bitter coffee
and a birdsong
breath visible
in the crisp morning air
attention turns inward
finding nothing
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Behind A Smile Lies Darkness
Looks can be deceiving,
Behind a smile lies darkness,
An illness invisible.
Laughing through sorrow,
Acting through pain,
Lying to survive.
Learning to pretend,
Saying the right words,
Diverting attention.
I’m fine.
I’m just tired.
It’s nothing.
Don’t worry.
I’ve got this.
It’ll pass.
Self imposed exile,
Hiding from the world,
Hiding from myself.
Time to think,
Time to regret.
Time to practice my smile.
This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly
Wrist Locks From Guard
I used to have friends,
Then I broke their wrists.
Playing this game from bottom,
Of pain I did insist.
First I hunted their legs,
Then focused on their hands,
After me they can no longer push,
No longer grab, or walk or stand.
Some say it’s dirty,
But I tend to disagree,
Grab whatever sub you can,
Like it’s on sale, bargain bin free!
Yes people will not enjoy it,
They may yell, cry and complain,
Saying you are being cheap,
Taking the name of Jiu Jitsu in vain.
But they just got subbed,
A victory I just earned,
So hide your hands baby
It’s a lesson you just learned.
So come to the dark side,
The techniques aren’t that dodgy,
Just ask yourself,
Why are you ignoring 4% of the body?
This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry