Sometimes I get bored,
And wish I could escape,
From where I’m moored.
To trade the daily slog and heartbreak,
For a life of wind and sails.
Who needs stability and land,
When you have the sea’s gales?
If only I could offhand destiny,
To mother nature’s hands.
To sign up and join a crew,
Of fellow wayward souls,
To set out searching the blue,
For something we can’t quite name:
Our yet undiscovered goals.
Self becomes nought when facing,
An onslaught, of never-ending currents.
Pressure, stress and bills that are chasing,
The uncertain sea itself begins erasing.
To free yourself from context.
To not have a beginning or an end,
And instead, be continually in motion,
Each crest and fall new as it upends,
Yet as ancient as the rest of the ocean.
If only I could escape into shades,
Of aquamarine, turquoise and azure.
Cool crystalline waves that cascade,
In sparkles of liquid light on the shore.
So, content and carefree in mere moments,
Creating beauty and allure,
Until they are no more.
To be free of knowledge and constraint,
To live life in blissful ignorance,
A life without restraint,
As we indulge in the sea breeze.
But I am stuck, marooned.
Feet buried in the sand,
No tide to give cool relief.
I remain tied to the land,
By my own self-sabotage,
Escape remains a mirage.
19h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 11:02 AM UTC
How do you capture a person, a lover, a friend?
The feelings they invoke.
I once feverishly tried to catch moments,
Through paper and brushstrokes,
To weave a tapestry that conveys,
Each fine line, each glance or gaze.
But paper couldn’t capture them,
Pens and paint are too fickle, too easy to erase.
Even a whirring shutter,
Cannot capture true depth,
Its pale mockery haunts me,
Hollow, flat, devoid of breath.
No emotion, no flicker of light.
A sensor, a lens,
Cannot compete against eyesight.
Besides the paper fades and wears,
Colour washes out,
No amount of love can repair.
Then can a person exist in the mind?
If only memory could be so kind,
But she is a fickle mistress,
And the mind is far from riskless.
Things buried deep are prone to disappear,
So even if you gather here:
Those precious memories, moments,
Days you hold so dear,
Don’t expect your aging self,
To remember things as clear.
If memories cannot hold them,
Maybe only you can.
To tie down and hide away,
For the rest of their lifespan.
To shelter, cherish and hoard,
You hold them close, tell them to stay.
But part of them decays.
Choking, depriving, deprecating,
To overwhelm in a loving embrace,
Until slowly, your suffocating
Means all colour leaves their face.
Maybe this is impossible.
You cannot capture a person,
Any more than you can bottle an emotion,
Cage the vast, boundless sea,
Pin down a thought or notion,
Or chastise the sun on your knee.
Why do we obsess and lament,
The past rather than enjoying the present?
How to capture a person?
Maybe the only true way,
Is in individual moments,
The day-to-day.
6d ago
May 29, 2026 at 3:50 AM UTC
We begin as a sprawling mess of legs,
Hands and feet, splaying out,
Shouting, to be seen and heard, we beg.
Frenzied desire for life, a chaotic fervour,
Yet the world quiets and says, “do not disturb her”.
This penchant for order, a status quo,
Our true nature is lost as early as we know.
Why is it only children hear the song?
The call to explore, to climb, to enjoy creation.
Who decides these things shouldn’t belong?
Each bit of whimsy, individualism, imagination,
Slowly withers, colour leaching out,
It is our own fault; we created this drought.
Sit still, look smart, don’t play with those toys,
Grow up, behave, life isn’t something to enjoy.
No longer do we question, our routines and city,
An endless cycle of perpetual pity.
These unwelcoming grey spaces,
That we visit and toil, name “workplaces”.
Each measured minute a rigid routine,
Alive but not living, we sit at our screen.
Each well-dressed, copied person,
A zombie as the world worsens.
How is it we settle for this,
When we started out knowing bliss?
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 5:25 PM UTC
How is it we can push on,
When we are wisps, already gone?
Full of potential that is quickly lost.
Forgotten like a seed swept up in the wind,
Into a concrete graveyard we are tossed,
Landing amongst the debris and chagrin.
To survive is a life of hardship,
Struggling as the weeds grapple and choke,
Our freedoms threatened and revoked.
We are nought but blossoming fruit,
With our perfect moment of ripeness,
Before we tumble down to the roots,
Bruised and fruiting our own mouldy whiteness.
How is it that we hold ourselves firm,
When we are battered and spoiled?
Only good as food for the earthworm,
We turn brown and return to the soil.
From the day we are born,
We begin to warp and change,
Why don’t we break down and mourn
As we see fur rapidly become mange?
Flesh becomes carrion, which too
Is picked clean and becomes bone,
White stained yellow with life we have outgrew,
Ground down into dust and stone.
Soft skin scars and sheds,
Movement makes muscle ache.
Brittle bones crack, splinter and break.
Each breath, heartbeat, synapse flash,
A reminder of our own diminishing power.
Why is it we don’t writhe and thrash,
As we find ourselves aged and sour.
How come seeing the thin wall,
Between life and death does not render us,
Insane and manic as we face the endless fall?
Despite facing endless decay,
We choose to move, to breathe, to stay.
May 25
May 25, 2026 at 1:50 PM UTC
I don’t know when I first saw it,
This stranger buried in my mind.
I dig deep down in the pit,
Raking, trying to find
Some signal or sign,
A recognition of some kind.
But the harder I stare,
The more they vanish into air.
My eyes strain and ache,
As they trace each familiar line.
But they cannot see him whilst awake.
Each glimpse is short, sharp, fine,
A stabbing pain that grows,
I find myself pulled deeper in throes
Of dreaded eager desire.
Deadly and consuming, slow to expire.
They are glimpsed in partiality,
In that grey space that lies betwixt.
That moment of murky unreality,
Where waking and sleep are intermixed.
A haunting visage of the unknown,
So familiar yet so foreign,
Some half-forgotten part I call my own.
This alien entity that faces out,
Unescapable shadow of my form.
In these episodes, these bouts,
My own shape seems to transform.
If I could get out of my physical bonds
Move outside, get beyond,
Perhaps I could properly see,
The face that stares back at me.
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 7:41 AM UTC
Romeo, whose love did conquer,
And persist beyond the grave.
A tale both tragic and sombre,
Yet only through being so brave,
Was he able to cause change.
My heart couldn’t be so concrete in certainty,
As Romeo’s was.
Being opposed by family, not society
Surely, he was not as ashamed,
As my young self?
Take Theseus, valiant hero of Crete,
I wonder why he left his love behind.
Why is it he could face and defeat,
A warrior, an animal, a man, yet find
A woman unlovable?
Did he realise in the sultry Grecian night,
Ariadne could not be his counterpart?
When he turned away- cowardly chose flight,
Did he lose some battle within his heart.
Did he too feel a monster for not finding delight
In a woman’s arms?
The ancient and powerful King Arthur,
Did court his maiden Guinevere,
But was he always so besotted,
With a woman’s hand to revere?
Or did his knightly vows, his brotherhood,
Say a man and man never could,
Be something more, something pure.
For a man can only hurt and wound,
Not find comfort, speak soft nothings.
In his marital act was he too doomed,
To a life without true loving?
Odysseus spent years trying to get home,
Overcame each obstacle and scrutiny,
Fought through hell and Poseidon’s sea foam,
Never gave up, even when faced with mutiny.
But I wonder if his lover was a guy,
Would Odysseus have returned alive?
For there would be no end to his quest,
No kingdom which he could win,
For his people would detest,
Against such a union they would protest.
Thus, this hero, hearing the siren’s song,
Would realise, in their embrace,
Would be the only place he could truly belong.
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 4:41 PM UTC
The air itself: a moving current of particles,
Changing mixing, flowing,
Overspilling its banks as it travels, going-
Gone, each moment a new composition born.
The ground upon which we stand,
Hurtles on as though driven by the beat of drums,
Being struck by an ever-impatient hand.
Spinning on an invisible axis
Made of intangible stuff we try to
simplify with our crude lexis.
Even the most basic item - a myriad of parts,
An everchanging horizon of building blocks
It’s smoothness an illusion, as you take apart a paradox
Of uneven crests and falls our eyes
Fail to render without aid from tools,
Our own senses are full of lies.
Hands used to shape, build a world.
Dead or alive, in one piece or tatters,
it doesn’t matter; for they still create.
Whether creation, from our minds, unfurls
Or from the world of bacteria, we prostrate
Ourselves in service of endless life.
May 1
May 1, 2026 at 9:09 AM UTC
The air is empty and still,
Coating the room with its sterility.
Even the dust is inert, settled upon the windowsill.
The ground is sturdy, immovable beneath me,
Stoic, resolved in perpetuity
Furniture sits idle, unoccupied,
Unmoving, abandoned by something in endless ambiguity
That is –
And has somehow always been.
To die, to dry, to leave nothing behind.
It almost implies there was a time,
That something was alive.
No people visit, no animal crawls
My hands – They do nothing at all.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 2:25 PM UTC
What does it mean to write?
Is it a pen against paper telling a story?
Is it a speech attempting to sway, to right,
Or to diminish and deprave, repeating old glory?
Is it a sort of ritual, a rite, to perform?
Like actors taking the stage,
Bodies writing themselves into new forms,
Under the direction of the play-wright’s page.
Could it be the click-clack of keys,
Distilling, capturing,
Unlocking the poet’s mind for all to see.
Can it even be explained by tongue,
This concept living in the aether,
Or is it something beyond, some far-flung,
Thing our minds somehow threw together.
Maybe it’s meaningless, something absurd,
After all, it’s just a word.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 11:48 AM UTC
The light itself is irrelevant.
It’s what it highlights that matters,
As it stirs the flotsam of dust and debris.
Walls of flaking paint, cracks and curtains in tatters,
Even in the memories I am not free
Of the light sweeping over me.
Each scratch, chip, old relics of time past,
The light enhances, reminds, permeates
My mind as it tumbles faster,
Running from the harshness it recreates,
Preferring the kind shadows of nostalgia,
The softer glow masks the cracks.
Draw the curtains, trap the light behind,
Tape the edges to seal away it’s revealing power,
Leaving you in the dark, alone and blind.
Seek a candle or lamp to comfort and cower,
Artificial sun be kind to me,
Curb the edges of my mind,
I plea.
Apr 27
Apr 27, 2026 at 10:51 AM UTC