I have nothing to write
I am Empty inside.
Unsure if I have been robbed by medication or maturation
or perhaps emotional numbness has caused this.

I do not see the seasons change or the flowers bloom and die.
I see dead leaves, polluted skies.
oppressed peoples, blind eyes.

My empathy has been sapped from me by many years of life.
I am reminded constantly that I’m powerless
to aid them in their strife
women, men and children suffering through life
but someone is helping them, probably, and that’s nice.

then life goes on
again and
tomorrow I am told
suffering exists, numbness is bliss. please return to your clockwork life

Yours’s sincerely Head manager Mrs...

I WANT TO LIVE!
I want to die

I WANT TO DIE
I WANT TO LIVE

honestly though; I just want to be okay

I met today the daughter of a diplomat

her face was framed in such a way

that I found it hard to stay my gaze.

A seed, set into soil, seeded to be
a great oak tree.
sprouts in deepest of hells floors
towers unto heaven’s door.
Many try the climb and fail
Not many live to tell the tale
Many try the climb and find
At the top they are forgiven sin.
Many will gaze upon the tree
maybe you.
Maybe me.
Golden fruit and angels high
branches of life unto the sky.
Pleasure below, swapped for the soul
Ecstasy traded for a heavy toll


Angels look down from tree branch high
Demons beckon below
One way yes, one way no

I am climbing from bottom to top
Although at times I am stopped
even when I begin to fall
I catch myself and begin again

That climb from Worlds end

I squander my time
I wander and wind between the pillars of despair in my mind
crawling my way through mazes made by “Phases” in my mind
trying my best to find out what it means to be normal.
I hear that storm calling out all the time
thunderclouds battering my mind
the darkness that rolls in on all sides.
My smiles come and go with the tides
betting my life on rolls of a dice.

Who is it that deicides that I have to feel this way?
Who is it that decides the worth of my life?
who is it that decides I should feel this pain, or behave astray or be taken away
from my mum: when I was young.
I don’t have the power to be okay,
I don’t have the power to end my days
or let go of my pain.

why can’t I be like them?
why can’t I think about cars and tv?
why do I think of stars and poetry,
or the feel of wet grass beneath my feet?

Lying in the shade of a tree
leaves above guarding
brittle bark, unbroken base
standing solid, a solitary sentry
surveying
Signalling safety to the seekers of sanctum
They search in vain across scorched desert plains
for a sign of the last tree

One more shot
before I Stop.
One last line of vitality
accepting that Finality.
Mixed up my realities  
Finding myself lost.
Swapping years of life for  
seconds
of Ecstasy.
And he said to me “I know I'm going to die if I go on.”
I thought that meant he would stop.
I guess not.

to say I am lost would be to imply that, at one point, I was present.
My presence was ignored from the time I crawled the floors,
feelings inside developed into sores
boring onto my soul scars.
My father, my guide, idolised in mind.
They say love is blind but
when eyes open and you find monsters, sponsors of crime
doing time for an easy dime,
can you carry that love on
or does that one idol burn?
I am lost or
rather never found, no guide by my side,
just going with the tide and building walls, to keep these feelings back,
that torment my mind.
The foundries of feeling’s forges have gone cold, Shut away and barricaded
by un-shaken walls.
So I wander, in search of myself,
I wonder
if I’ll be found or
if I’m bound for a battery of life:

It hurts to feel
but it’s so easy to not feel at all
Are those my options?
Forget feeling or facilitate pain
Live discontent
motivation spent.
I don’t know.
I just, don’t know.

Surveying their realm.
Secret disdain for their domain of rule
looking down expecting us fools.
Shackled to rules, guided by fools who use us like tools.
Treat us like work mules,
Bulls for entertainment
These acts are shaming, we walk tamely for fames sake.
Hoping to be remembered in books, so we surrender our right to fight
against the blight  
of flawed systems that hold us tight.
This keep us up at night, gnawing thought that never stops.
So, we take shots and forget  
we the push back the ever fret-
ing of our minds.
Trying to find solace in our mind that the binds  
we wear are worth it.
History is told by the victors
swayed by the bandaged blisters of long repented sores.
Abandoned the brotherhoods  
that formed, upon the shores of less peaceful times, when our place in community was assured.
We steward bards
and they divide us into shards to fight in petty wars
added pawns to the value of their might.
And at the end when we shut our eyes and embrace the night the world is left to fools, who fight and compare might and make us the debt of their plight.

The little bird watched as His mother ate the magic berries
seen the bright in her beak, the shine in her wings and her frost colored feathers.
A force through her frame, Wild and beautifully un-tame.
“Mother may I have some berries?” Said the little bird
the mother turned alarmed, as If the little bird was harmed and hastened to say
“You may never eat the berries, not from this tree. These are for the big birds like Your dad and me”
The little bird heard and understood “This is for big birds like you”

The mother gathered up the berries and holding them in mouth the two began to fly.
The mother's wings spanned spaciously, taking in strong current, revolving in a torrent of play with her son.
These moments occurred from day to day with inconsistent frequency.  
Treasures of the sky folk.
As the son flew higher than ever before the mother begun to shout  
“Down son, down son. Not so close to the yellow ball Or you will fall”
Seeing the worries in the mothers face the son begun to descend
The son had heard and understood, they continued on in a lesser mood.

The son knew that today they seek father, high in his metal tower.
Locked behind bars.
They descended upon the tower and lay to rest on the ledge by its side.
The Son went to speak but was interrupted
The look at Father, he was a washed out grey, wore out wings and feathers.
“Do you have the berries” He said
The mother bird nodded and opened her beak placing it on his
The son knew this was a love kiss.
The wild force raced through his father but it didn’t seem like enough
the mother and father begun to slumber.
The son was resting warm in the light.


When the son awakened his parents were still asleep,
he noticed the un-natural arch of their feet? the stink of rotting meat!
the light had gone from the two.
The son was frantic and searched around looking for the magic berries
finding two he gave his parents one each and closed their mouths waiting for the light
but neither made a move.
A third berry he found and ate it himself.
He begun to fly, thoughtless, joyful, overwhelmed with love.

Labored breath of the world
unceasing battery
shards of frigid breath piercing pale flesh
dark and pregnant clouds fill out the skies pallet

Gaian forces besieging our hallowed, hollowed, bastions of culture
persistent scraping of our walls
the pre-disposed prophecy of sand

life given over to the evergreen
every phoenix must burn
That is the way

She lays down
in bed-sheets red and retreats into her mind
agonizing over answers to questions,
answers she will never find.
This isn’t the first time.

The sun and the moon waltz through the skies
watched through clouded eyes
the pair reminds her how alone she feels inside,
the disconnect that’s in her mind.
It won’t be the last time.

The wind batters her with rain
she is tired, broken… ashamed.
She doesn’t know your name and you don’t know hers,
it’s time for that to change. Loneliness is the bastion of the mind,
don’t look for answers you will never find.

Do you know how hard it is to stand with one leg missing and one leg broke ?
It’s a joke.
Left to learn to walk without support
Feeling like a failed abortion.
Going through the motions of love and trying to rise above and reach my hand out of the mud.

Bud I can tell you it’s hard
Iv come far on my own
With no parents to phone or ask about how to live life without strife.

I’m sorry but I shouldn’t be, I’m trying to do this for me and I guess that’s harder for you to see.
You think that because you took the time to make me tea and never mistreated me
That makes you free from blame.
Makes me feel ashamed and framed for the crime.
Maybe in time you will see what you did to me
And that tea isn’t enough for a kid and the effect that the empty fridge had on me.

You were high when I was low
I was slow to pick up on your problem
That’s my problem.

I’m sorry.

I rue the day I lost faith in myself,
let negativity take over sober thought
and say to me my chances are shot,
to be content at a morose trot fowling maps of my life that strangers plot.

Is Life just a spinning gun? , a game of luck.
Revolving on, in endless loops leaving me stuck in the muck.
Waiting for my turn to tug the trigger as the steak gets bigger
and my goals and dreams are self-dammed,
the fires that burn them self-fanned.
My mind imposing dark bans on self-success as I tell myself “I’m a mess”

what would happen if I focused and give my best?
What would happen if before I play i open the magazine and abandon the bullet?
Would I do better if I wasn’t so worried I’d shoot myself?

If before I play i dare to prepare and tell myself I will win because the bullets gone and that negative voice binned.

I Think I could.

I have ever felt alone.
Marooned on a rock,
Surrounded by dead stock
Absent of mind or independent thought.
Idiocy is idealistic, ignorance bliss,
I envy this in them.
The burden of intellect is straining on the mind and once knowledge is gained escape, hard to find.

Walking thin lines between the mundane and mad,
A life drained of meaning,by the hand of definition.
Cornered by the finality of decisions I never made.
Alone.
Afraid.
Living in a time, after all has been said and all is being said.
After foundations laid and built up
into city states.
Now I’ll get to stand on its grave and watch as what makes us individual fades.
We’ve become slaves to lit pathways and the printed words on the back of meals that say
PUT ME IN THE MICROWAVE!
For one and a half minutes.
Then stir.
Going in circles with my spoon feeling a discontent bafoon because my life comes pre-prepared, easy to serve and consume.
These presumptions leave us no room, our creativity entombed.
But maybe one day when the worlds not so broke it will be exhumed.
I write to them from the world we broke.

A dark stranger hides behind corners in the corridors of my mind.
I have his name and he has mine.
Sometime I’ll say hello to him but just from time to time.
Sometimes he’s bound in broad, black,  wrought chains. Seeming beastly and      un-tame.
Sometimes he gets loose and plays sick and twisted games.
The dark stranger is a glutton for all the other sins.
Don’t be tempted by his offers, he will always win.
No dagger will stop him of iron, bronze or tin.
Nor will you find solace at the bottom of a gin.
The dark stranger must be tamed as he can never be the blamed.
For I have his name!
I have his name.
The dark stranger must never be embraced for even one, short, sweet taste and he never stops the chase.
Beware the dark stranger lurking in your mind, lest you wake one day and he is all that you can find.

Lying, yellow lamp light illuminated the baron broadway.
Fear beginning to break through thought, fighting for freedom from intention.
“Be afraid”.
“Be very afraid”.
He stayed, splayed
on hard road looking peaceful in that white night.
Calling to the angels with snow.
“NO! Be afraid”.
“NO! Be very afraid I said”.
His mind was already made, he stayed splayed.
Weeping, wishing, waiting he welcomed what was to come.
“RUN!!”
“RUN!!”
“RUN!!”
But he was done, finished with the world.
Thought and fear swirled inside; whirlpools of midnight black carried him on tormented tides, torturing his mind.
Is this his time ?
Is this his time ?
Continue on ? and when they ask he’ll just say that he is fine.
Joke and laugh and long inside for things he’ll never find.
These were the thoughts that toiled in his mind, teetering on the edge, shears ready to cut thread.
Laying there....
Staying there as headlight begun to blind.
Feelings, thoughts and life its self bursting from there binds.
Faster, closer, louder. No one sees the signs and no one cares: pain so great it can’t be beared, hurt so deep it can’t be shared, pain that teared and teared and teared. Breaking will, it never stills, pain that built and built and built.
He just wants it to cease,
he just wants peace!.
He could smell it now, petrol in the air.
Hear the wind, see the light, his fear gave up the fight.
The engines roar, so loud that it silenced his mind.
The light got closer.
The light got closer, so many things not done, so many things unsaid.
And then....
he was starring at the moon as car and light and noise passed him over head.
He wasn’t.... Dead.
He wasn’t dead.

The solitary pianist played.
alone .
fingers met keys unlocking the subtle, sonorous, secrets  hidden within the music .
Feeling seemed to seep and surge from the pianist playing, puncturing soul and heart.
Dim light illuminated the scene: piano, player, chess patterned perch and nothing else.
Nothing else seemed so close and so far as if reaching out to touch something but missing it by nail lengths.
The music sung to the emptiness.
A sirens call in the dark.
A searching scream.
The song seemed to sink and soar.
The man played more and more.
On and on and on and on and on and on
Sailing that emptiness, seeking sanctuary from himself.
Trying to stop stepping deeper and deeper.
Revolving now, a Waltz with himself.
Solemn song sung for a stolen mind.
Poached personality.
Short,secret, pleasures swapped for a soul.
Sanity set sail, a drift in black.
Swimming and flying and drowning with no way back.

Heavy summer rains.
Bright winter sun.
And the World spun, spun.

Melting ice, are they to blame?
Punished for naught, we bear no shame?
And we think the World, tame? Tame?

Lightning strikes thrice.
Once by morning, twice by night.
And the World fights, fights.

Ancient minder now grows cold.
Anger comes to reshape the mould.
And we think the World, controlled? Controlled?!

When forests burn and chaos rains who is it you think that will remain?
Him so old or us so young? Who’ll be left to say?
The World still spun.

Our children may chase butterflies.
but me?
I’ll stay by your side.

teens may break with the tide
and run off alone with butterflies.
But Not me my dear, I’m by your side.

Other men chose butterflies
and then go off with small goodbyes.
But not you my dear, your by my side.

One steps, Two step
One set, Two: become one...

One kiss, Two kiss
“I’ll miss you Two”:
Become one and the binding is done.

One lies, Two rise:
Butter blonde hair. eager to fly.
Bound in place by chosen ties.

One biles, Two smiles.
Miles and Miles;
Long road ahead and that blue heart is fed.

One wanes, Two wax.
Picks up the slack.
Support at: soul, eyes, back all ransacked.

Two dies, One cries.
Black suit, black tie.
Bindings were broke by thieved goodbyes.

One steps, none step.
Two set:
Two rest, only half is left.