It was not God that brought me back from the
sandy hell that they called war.
It was not luck that let the bullets splash around my feet,
and not let one out of the many that faced me, destroy me.
It was love. That was my protection. Un-quenching, un-dividing , perfect love.
The kind of love that you cant simply look for. A lasting love, a love that will still be hear after the pages from the poets that have written about it, have degraded to little more than dust in a frail breeze.

My thanks is to love.

Someone else can write my story
once I have finished living it
and through its brilliance it has claimed my life.

I hear the guitar play,
Its steel strings resinate a tune that is unfamiliar to me.
its at that point I notice you dancing in the corner of the room.
Moving like water, so beautiful.
If you were a colour you'd be lilac, or perhaps lavender, if there is a difference, I do not know.

If I were a courageous man, I would waltz over, timing it to the delicate music and make my entrance into your life, however I am not a courageous man.
Instead I will stay here and sip my bitter drink, thinking about how our life could have been together.
It would have been great.

I slip between the crevasse that parts my mind.
Its an equal split from sanity to the obscene.
I am trapped in the middle, clinching on as the
precipice on either side begins to crumble.
If I slip, I do not know what darkness awaits me below.
I may even fall through to a place of pure white snow.
Yet I hang on tight, hoping for a tall breeze to lift me out.

I seem to have lost my liking for you.
We were close once, but now we have drifted,
like a stem of birch in a tumbling river,
you drift.
Like the name of a forgotten friend, we reunite
but your name does not come to me.
I am a gutless swine to forget something so perfect.
I am merely angry at myself.

There is little success in writing, none of any wealth, not without selling
your soul.
It seems that these days our book store shelves are slaves to **** literature,
and our computers are ruled by the pop-up one time self help blog Kings & Queens.
They all seemed to believe that their writing is filled from the truth buried within the heart and soul, and tireless nights slaving over the blank page, but few really torture their souls to bleed onto the page. Few watch as the bottles empty beside the array of snubbed out cigarette ends, all for the perfect tale, all for the best story. But it is never good enough, because to be tortured, you are never to be satisfied. There is no fame with writing, there is no success,
that only comes in death.

I thought I could write, but oh how wrong was I.
My voice is soundless, and my words have scratched the page, written in a leadless pencil.
My pen is quenched of ink, and my soul is an empty crevasse, cold a bleak.
Where is my muse to light  the words that will fill my stories.
Nowhere.

Where does my courage form,
if not from the belly of despair?
Where does my strength bread,
so to turn me into something magnificent.
I am the founder of glory,
the giver of greatness.
I have a stoic heart, washed in the blood of my
enemies,
But I know no love,
and that kills me.
For  man with love only for himself,
is bound to an inexorable death.

I found a friend in a stoic spoon,
silver like the crescent patch of missing darkness
that rules the night.
I haven't many friends  so this one I came
to cherish.
in my absent sense I made a harrowing mistake,
an unforgiving error of human addiction.
Me and my dear spoon lit our path in incandesce,
gliding to the patch of missing darkness, engulfed
in the whirling torrent cast by the torrid flame beside us.
If I could paint, i would show you a place beyond beauty.
If I could sing, I would sing a melody that could move mountains.
however, I cannot. I am just me, and my spoon, searching for the patch of missing darkness.

How have I wound up to be so quenched
of laughter, and beautiful conversations?
Does the silent sadness play a sorrowful tune
in the darkest depth of my despair?
How can a man move forwards
in such a bitter gale.
I fear that all I can do is lay down to die......
In my inexorable death,
torment has its final wicked way.

And then it struck me,
the wintery madness.
The cold ebbed through
the cracks of my frozen
skin, sinking deep into my bones.
I have never felt the cold like this,
albeit it was a cold unspent in misery.
For I knew I was coming home to you.

No sooner does my breath fail
than once our eyes meet.

Let to me to be the shelter from the storm,
to break the waves that crash down on your
distorted reality.
I am the love that lost its fight,
yet I linger in the shadows, waiting
to be the hero once more.
The story ends on the last page,
so turn slowly my love
for my  chance has yet to be written.

We are the architects of the future. However, it seems we have forgotten to build, and instead decided to destroy.

I saw it, if for only a brief moment,
that side to you that you keep hidden
amongst the shadows.
Your eyes bleed danger
and the charming smile, was
after all,  not charming by any means,
instead it was filled with malice.
There are not words to describe the fibre
of your evil.
Your actions mark the page beyond what
mere words can say.
I am ashamed to call you apart of me,
so I must turn away from this mirror,
and never look again.

I lost myself today.
Not through malice,
nor through darkness,
but the revered wonder of
what my future may hold.

Our future is a secret
and the secrets are hidden in the stars.
Each one glistening brightly,
waiting for us to reach high enough
and pull it down,
and become who we are meant to be.
You don't want to be sad?
Lonely?
Loveless?
Selfish?
Lost?
So reach......
As high as you can,
and live the best version of you.

I heard that song.
Our song.
It brought your beauty to mind.
I smiled

I broke a glass
and the shards of destruction
were more beautiful
than any diamond
I have ever seen.

Oh boy hasn't it left me weak,
Like too many ice cubes
melted into a glass of scotch.
I had grand visions on the eve
of this foul dream,
vision's that rest on a life changing
scale,
but now I lay here
miserable and weak.
Im like a once proud stag,
hit by a car,
reduced to little more
than road ****.

Misery can clam us all if we let it.
I battle it each day that I am awake,
but it has now crept into my dreams
to claim me.
I rise each vile morn with its wry smile
of stolen victory glaring,
gloating,
grimacing.

I have succumbed.

Remember me?
I was the one always there.
I was the light when
reality rained showers
of shadow.
Remember me?
You said we would be inseparable,
yet somehow we have drifted so far.
It hurts to know we used to be so close,
like brothers.
Times change I get that,
seasons wither the great oak,
but it still returns to its strongest.
We were strongest together,
yet you never came back.
You went away,
but did not return.
How selfish.
To give your life for everyone else
when I would wish to just have you.
I am alone now,
I just hope you are with me,
in spirit.

Why does normality **** creativity!
Why does it always get in the way
like yesterdays rain spilling into
tomorrows sun.
I cant run from this.
I cant escape this dreary rule of
mundane society.
I want to write!
'Then write' you say.
but I can't,
not with normality being
the murderer of my muse.
How can I create something beautiful,
wonderful,
brilliant,
magnificent
When normality is just one step outside my door.

I guess this is a place for the damaged souls to come?
Take a ticket, stand in line and quench our misery.

I once knew a happy writer........That sounds like the start
of a bad joke, but its true.
He was inspirational.
He soon became a drunk, lost in a sea of
cheap wine, blinded at the surface by an
ebbing flow of cigarette smoke.
That was the way of it,
he slipped from the precipice of happiness
and cascaded down into that ocean of despair.

I swam out to try and find him,
but I myself got lost at sea,
drunk on misery, for I had lost my
dearest friend.

I am still here
floating,
alone.
Lost at sea.

Yesterday was blue.....
Please make today beautiful.

So I want to be a poet,
I want to be a writer,
I want to be loved,
remembered,
admired.

Why me,
why would I deserve
to succeed at what others,
MANY others
are so much better at doing...

Heart?*
We all have heart,
doesn't mean mine is bleeding most.

So, I read something beautiful.
'The spaces between your fingers
were created so that another's
could fill them in.'
I am unsure who wrote this,
but they made my morning.

My youth has slipped past
and I  am constantly
finding myself staring back,
trying to catch a glimpse of
of what happiness looked like.

I                Feel               Old.

Tired.
Like a worn out boot
thats trodden too many stoney
paths.
I haven't any pace left in me.

Life is delusion.
The only truth in life,
is in knowing that death
will claim us all.

My reflection is damaged.
I am too afraid to touch
the mirror,
for I do not wish to know
what is beyond the shards
of my shattered reflection.

I weep
for the hours I have lost,
strung out in discontent.

I turn and walk,
seeking the shadows
that hide my true face.

Time,
it see's the death of us all.
I have endless empathy for time,
knowing that its forever surrounded
by life, but its forever friendless.
We will all soon be dust,
passing through our own timeless
darkness.
So time has too much of itself
to have friends,
even though some of us want
to be close to time, to see more of it.
Some of us are given more.
But time favours no one.

His name is Murphy.
Its funny old name,
for a dog.
When I wake,
I know he's there,
happy to see me.
When I sleep,
I know I am safe.
There is no love lost,
between a man's best friend,
for meticulous misgivings
do not exist.  

When I drink too much
and struggle the next day,
I know comfort is a mere
whistle away.
You clear my head,
and inspire me.
I see the look of freedom
spread across your face
each and every time
we walk across the fields.

I raise a glass,
to my dear best friend.

I wrote you a song
but I couldn't use the
the sweetest chords
as it would be a lie,
and I seek only
honesty in my life.
I tried to sing
but I was lost for words,
I know you stole them,
you did so in the same way
that you stole my heart.

I made a friend
as I drank alone.
I watched him
and he watched me.
I pitied him
and I know he pitied me.
he's barely a life
yet I am the lowlife.
They say the flies
go to ****,
I guess I know
what that makes me.

I wrote a song the other day,
it was in a minor key
but believe me it was
far from sombre.
I wrote it about girl,
she doesn't know me,
but I know that if she
did, she would love me.
the way I do from afar.
My song is silent to her,
but to me its lasting.

Has me inebriated,
intoxicated,
spiralling to levels of
desperation.
But nothing will stop me,
not even myself.

The meeting of two
is the becoming of one,
through love and lust
does love create some.
We create life,
through love,
and we last forever
from here and above.

Love is timeless
lasting, and brilliant.
Its not perfect,
nor ever will be.
But in its imperfections
it becomes  honest and true.
Love is colour,
its shape
it can be the light
and dark of every moment
in its timeless forming shape.
clueless babbling is the true
infection of blinding love.
I know I am babbling
but I know I am in love.

What did you expect was going to happen?
They don't applaud drunken belligerence.
Your a drunk,
cold as the devilish winter,
as bitter as the earth below a lemon tree
and as wild as a forest night.
Your a drunk,
a fool,
a careless fool.
What did you expect was going to happen?
You've done it again,
you've ruined it all.
Inebriated swine,
Give me one birthday that I can remember
with a smile.

I saw a light on this day

it came from my dear dogs eyes.

A bright light I must say

for it held me,

captured in its admiration 
and honest love. 

I have known many ways to love,

though some perhaps left unsaid,

but this was one time I felt

must be spoken of.

A love for honesty,

and beauty,

and pride and fortitude.

This dog had it all. 

My best friend, 

my proudest conversation.

I salute you, 

dearest companion,

for your loyalty,
it is truly 
unmatched.

I watch her move
like smoke
dancing off a
torrid ember.
The earth weeps
knowing that there
will never be anything
quite as beautiful as her,
and it weeps
at the fact that her last moments
are filled with panic and fright.
she cuts through her nefarious foe
like the ocean spray
that slices its way through
crag rock to dampen a once dry space.
She falls to darkness,
with the searing pain of a slicing blade,
but she will not cry, beg nor
give in.
She welcomes death as a dear friend,
and looks to the light of the world beyond.

There are empty spaces
everywhere I look,
they are filled with the
shadows of my regret.
the torturing eyes of my
profound past
haunt me like
a lost love left behind.
I plea to simper times
to grant me the honesty
and path that I deserve.
I have too many questions
and no answers
so I walk around with a
heavy head and a
weighty heart.
Its a beast of a burden
but not enough for anyone
to write a song about
so I stand here
and look into the
empty spaces around me
and know that the shadow closing in
will soon consume me.

I saw the rain fall sideways,
striking the cello case cruelly.
The case was white and beaten,
weathered and worn.
It was sad to be alone in the rain.
I could almost hear the cello sing
from inside its case,
like a trapped songbird
forced to play the saddest
of songs
for no other reason but
to make others feel as sad as
itself.
I hold my breath and the rain
taps on the case,
tap
tap
tapping noisily
for the cellos attention,
but he does not come out
and play,
and I dont blame him.

I look up to a clouded sky
filled with dragons.
Its once bleak, pale
rolls of imprisoned rain,
now illuminated in
strikes of red gold and
yellow.
a flighty beast that
rules the empty space above,
it looks down in pity
to our shameful selves.
We do not run,
no
we are too afraid to run,
instead we cower,
and cry mercy,
though we deserve none.
So we die exactly the way
we were born,
screaming
afraid
and blind to the truth of life.

Her eyes,
they were these
chasms of glass violet
magnifying the beauty
within.
Her gaze
held me silent
for days on end.
I had no words that
could match her beauty,
so I stayed silent,
but in my silence
I never got to
tell her to stay.
And now she is gone.

If I am a madman,
how will I know?
Will I catch a glimpse
of myself climbing
to an empty roof top.
Will I hear an inner laugh
or see that my reflection
is fractured?
How will I know?
Do the perpetual voices
in my head
render me mad?
Or is it just my conscience
arguing my sanity?
I know I am marred
but nobody is perfect.
We are inferior
to ourselves.
And
since when did
brilliance
never harbor
insanity.

Do you remember the first time
that you kissed her?
Your lips were dry
and they stuck to hers,
only slightly,
but enough to make your cheeks go red.
From that moment you were
overcome
by an insufferable desire to
grasp love with a tireless grip.
She became your everything
in the midst of that kiss.
Her voice
was the most beautiful voice.
Her smell
was the most incredible smell.
Her hair
was the most magnificent hair.
Her smile
was unmatched to any smile ever seen.
You will never find that same infatuation
that you found from your first love.
Your childhood love.
And you will never feel heart break
like the first time
that you see her kissing
your next door neighbour
for a go on his new push bike.
Your broken,
scarred,
but you  learned something that day.
That life goes on
no matter how marred
love can make you.

The city sleeps among its incandescence,
however,
she does not.
she watches,
she waits.
Locked in the safety
of her ivory tower,
her pale nakedness
becoming a silky glow in
the dim light of the room.
She is imprisoned
by her beauty,
though she is loved by many
she loves only one.
She waits up for him,
as a stranger
to the sea of sheets
that cling to her bare legs.
She hears footsteps
from down the hall
and questions,
is it her lover?
or is it another
who insists to pay for
her love.
She works the night,
a high end harlot.
Her sorrow wanes
like a wounded cry from
a beaten wolf.
Knuckles wrap against
the hotel door,
and she turns her gaze
from the city outside the window,
her hair moving
like dancing rays of
stolen light.
She reaches for the lipstick
on the night stand,
and walks bare skinned
and beautiful to the door.

I am a slave to winters ruin.
My skin
torn by the eastern wind,
and the once torrid flame
in my heart
has now become a marred
flicker of light.
Where is the passion?
The soul?
The love?
Since when did silent
whispers cut like
Damascus steel?

I can only guess
that is since losing you........

“These are supposed to be our best years
our most memorable.
Shamefully,
we are a generation of alcohol amnesiacs
we barely remember the names of those who have
filled our beds.
Its all a quest to find the ONE they say.
The weekend warriors battle through
the multitude of diseases,
what troopers.
You really have to ask yourself,
is it all really worth it?
The hangovers,
the blackouts,
the bad dreams and tormenting dizzy memories.
The STI’s,
the fall outs, bust ups, and broken friendships.
All of this from inside a glass.
You pay for it from the cash in your pocket, but your left with shattered lines across your face.
We are marred by our regrets.
So,
is it worth it?
yes?
Then what can I get you?” Asked the bartender.
“These are supposed to be our best years
our most memorable.
Shamefully,
we are a generation of alcohol amnesiacs
we barely remember the names of those who have
filled our beds.
Its all a quest to find the ONE they say.
The weekend warriors battle through
the multitude of diseases,
what troopers.
You really have to ask yourself,
is it all really worth it?
The hangovers,
the blackouts,
the bad dreams and tormenting dizzy memories.
The STI’s,
the fall outs, bust ups, and broken friendships.
All of this from inside a glass.
You pay for it from the cash in your pocket, but your left with shattered lines across your face.
We are marred by our regrets.
So,
is it worth it?
yes?
Then what can I get you?” Asked the bartender.

Today I saw the world
inside my father’s smile.
It was a brand new world
peaceful
pleasant
and joyous.
There was warmth
and light
and love,
inside my father’s smile.
If I could capture a moment
and hold it forever in my sight,
it would be that moment,
inside my father’s smile.

This bottle
I try to escape it
but each time
I find myself
back at the bottom.
I'm spinning
lost and incomplete.
I would never be so far in,
if it was not for you
walking so far out.
I am trapped in my
own damnation,
compelled by madness,
poisoned by whiskey.
I am a prisoner
inside my broken mind.