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

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.

I see the cluster
of stars that are lit
in the heart of your eyes
I watch the crease
of your lips curl
into a wicked smile
and I know then
that in that moment
we are drawn
to each other
like magnets
neither one of us able
to pull away
a fatal attraction
born in the torrid
flame of desire

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.

It is true to say that my life
has been a series of turbulent
twists and turns
the lows were deep
and the highs only just broke the surface
and kept me from drowning
but one thing was for sure
when we collided my heart had
never been so full.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Last night I dreamt that Charles Bukowski chortled at my attempts to be brilliant.
He laughed so hard he creased the ominous glow of the moon in two,
leaving little light for me to find my way out of the **** dream.
I was stuck for hours.
Going round
and
round
and
round
and
round.
Until suddenly I woke.
A thin veil of hope slicing through the blinds,
But I did not want to open them.
The sick part of me regretted waking up at all.

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 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 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.

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.

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.

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.

It started with a flash
then it all came at once.
A tumble of broken lives,
shattered dreams
and hopelessness.
My last moments were captured
in a fogged tundra of despair,
confronted by the screams
of my past.
I cry....
'Is this my end?'
Nothing answered,
just a cold silence
and the sinking feeling
that I had not done enough.
Who are we,
if we leave no mark behind.
We must all endeavour to stain
the world with who we once were.

The time that slips
effortlessly by
the things we miss
from eye to eye
the life we want
the life we love
the life we dream
gifted from above
you fail this
and you fail that
you fail to see
what life is about
you understand
the smallest things
but let slip by
the cruelest happenings
you are life
you are life
you are my life
and that is all
a life that i love
a life for all

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Hazel eyes and long curls of chocolate hair,
these were just what caught me first.
Clean skin, unspoiled, never marred
by the crooked calloused hands of man.
She was and always will be the paragon
of beauty, and to only smell her was
more intimacy than I probably deserved,
but it carried me through my days,
searching for that perfection.
It was an intoxication that poisoned me
day in and day out, but it was the kind
I begged for.
flagellation of the soul.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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 built a solid resilience,
a new layer of armour
to your words that
are not only sharp,
but deadly.

If only I could cope
with how you look at me.
That single fleeting glance
shatters me.

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 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.

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

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

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