A sleepless night sits behind me like a wicked reminder of all my troubles.
I look back at it to try and find out why it stole my sleep,
It just sits there, a haze of darkness pointing forward.
A faceless beast.
Ahead of me, as I turn, I see a tunnel.
There is so little light but as I step forward I know it has consumed me.
Spirals flash like lightning breaking the suffocating darkness,
I know before me there is a tundra of lifeless souls milling like pointless cattle.
I must make it my goal to bring joy when surrounded by so much darkness and apathy.
I smile back to my sleep thief, and I edge into the unknown.

The way the piano called into the night,
it wept and danced and moved like
the birch trees brushed by the wind.
The silver of the tree's caught the moon
which smiled,
an unexpected cluster of teeth proved
to the world that there really is a man
in the moon.

There is a stiff ache that sits over my eyes.
My thoughts bully me into a state of constant self-pity
shame on me, for I think ill of this weak character floor.
I dream of being a man for you, but I am not he.
I am me and that will forever be too little.

I have bitter sorrow lingering stubbornly in my mouth,
I have you to thank for thank.
I have an empty stain, where my heart was once drawn on by your steady hand,
It is you I thank for all my failings.
It is you I curse.
It is always you
because it cannot be me
for I have to live with me, alone, for all my days,
now that you are gone.

“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.

Your greatest audience
are those who love you most
so without that love
you find your words fall
empty no matter how full
you feel they are.

When the first light
of the new day
caught your eyes,
I saw my future
brighter than ever.

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

She wore her beauty like a silk blouse, it flowed effortlessly as she took life one stride at a time.

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.

My heart has gone rogue,
it runs to you
where I know
it will be safe.
*Forever
&
Always

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.

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.

She was a poet
they're all poets these days
spoilt and beautiful
drowned in old books
that they have only ever
scratched the surface of
head buried in the handheld
technology that shrinks
the brain cells
yet she was beautiful
unfortunately she was
a poet

So desperate were the frailer
minds of youth
that they neglected life
in return for a virtual plea for attention

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 sit opposite her a blockade between any embrace.
I have stared into these eyes a thousand times,
I know these lines so well I can trace them blindfolded.
Your words are mine before they are even yours,
yet your heart is always misunderstood.
I guess I just still don't know what love means.

rip my heart with your beauty
then sew it together with the thread of
our love

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.

I have murdered my selfrespect.
It only took one look and in that time everything I stood for crumbled.
I am marred,
all it took was a smile, a touch,
skin on skin.
The gentle caress of your fingertips on the back of my hand,
that is all it took to break my restraint.
As we tore at our clothes, we freed ourselves
we became one,
in that moment something happened that I cannot explain.
I lost everything,
yet found something.

I have been aboard
the great iron ship
curls of white escaping
the bow
it cuts like a blade
fleeing clouds tumble
as I stand  above and benieth
the beautiful blue.
The day is at its brightest
yet I yearn for the stars
as that is when the sky
will truly wake

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

What remained was the greatest
cover I have ever seen.
I will always know
what lies beneath
your facade,
beyond the beautiful surface
has rotted the inside
with a marred obsession
of social scrutiny.

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

She sits alone
rolling the ice cubes around
the bottom of her empty glass
at first I am filled with
the overwhelming desire to approach
but as I look harder
between the blades of strobed lights
I see her cracks
though she sits as still at the night owl
deafened by the cacophony of
foolish conversation and bad music
I see she is unstable
I see she has not come for company
yet neither does she wish to be alone
this is her
the night owl
an empty house
an empty bed
but what is not empty
is the inside of her head
she is truly magnificent
but know one will ever know

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.

The spilt milk soured,
it happened almost as quick
as when the glass first fell.

You looked at me
denigrating my insolence,
pitying my pathetic attempt
at being smooth.

The only thing smooth
in this room was the
milk bleeding across the floor,
like clouded glass
I could see my
horrified face
in the reflection.

All I felt was shame
unequivocal shame

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.

I would rather be a poor man
writing what i love,
than be a rich man
shackled to a life
of capitalistic rule,
stuck in a dreary job
that gives me no freedom
for creativity.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

'No bad writing' I say to myself,
and from there I begin deleting all that I have written

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.

A jab in the heart
by a blunt blade
of wit,
followed by an
unfashionable smile;
you come to me
barefoot across the
dew spread grass,
eyes of glass violet
glazed with the
violent past you
try so desperately to
hide.
Innocence is the burden
you lost before your
years reached double
figurers,
most men grow tired
of your perpetual
silent complaint
but I beg you for every
syllable
no matter how macabre.
You ignite me

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 would walk the promenade in Los Cris,
I would beat the sun as it broke free from the surface of the ocean.
We would greet as I walked and it rose, climbing the fleeing clouds.
It hadn't the heat that it would come to bare by midday,
so I would make the most of our conversation.
the crashing waves would bring with it a slight chill,
I would welcome this as I tasted the salt in the air.
I would bury my toes in the sand and stare out to sea,
wondering what magic lies beneath the surface.  
I would contemplate taking a swim,
but my feet begged me to walk on.
A homeless man sat consumed by the emptiness of his bottle,
He was rags and bone, skin charred from my friend the sun,
hair bleached and matted from the sea breeze.
I would look at the man, and he would humble me with a smile.
We would share a nod, and I would let my feet take me away.

You are all my reasons
For everything
I am me, because of you
and without you, we would not be us.
I thank you with a thousand kisses,
each a promise of their own
A promise as strong as our vow

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.