To my friend Withers ..

The world is a canvas, vast and wide,
And we, like broken crayons, are tossed aside.
With edges cracked, our colours fade,
Yet still, we mark the paths we've made.

Once, we were untouched by sorrow,
Box of crayons, world of endless tomorrows,
Our colours danced across the sky,
Dreams so bright they seemed to fly.
But cruel hands cracked our wax,
Snapping edges, dulling tracks.
Still, we clung to what remained,
Even as our pieces scattered, stained.

Each mark etched deep within our soul,
Bruises in shades of red, blue purple and grey, Many childhoods torn, love tangled in harms,
Safety lost to shadows, no false alarms.
“You’re nothing,” they whispered, sharp,
Their words like glass, cutting apart.
Yet through their scorn, we held our ground,
Knowing, deep down, what we had found:
Even broken crayons still colour fine,
Especially when you dont colour between the lines.

The hands meant to guard our grace,
Turned storms, tearing the open space.
Fingers that should’ve calmed our cries,
Stole the innocence from our eyes.
In silence, we learned to fear,
Spaces once meant for trust grew clear.
Darkness, our companion, shame by our side,
Yet in that stillness, we found our guide
A voice whispered softly in the night:
"You are more than this; our colour bright"

The world outside gave no relief,
Laughter like razors, cutting belief.
What healed on the body, scarred deep inside,
Roots of pain spread wide, untried.
Yet even as tears stained the night,
As broken crayons we reached for flight,
A rebellion small, against the dark,
A flicker of hope, a single spark.

For every blow, we painted lines,
For every lie, we drew new signs,
Our colours, though faint, refused to flee,
Jagged edges, yet they still be.
In empty spaces, we painted light,
Turning brokenness into our new fight.

The scars we carry, a map of survival,
Lines etched with strength, a truth so vital.
We climbed walls meant to confine,
Fought shadows that sought to define.
Though cracks in our spirit will never heal,
They catch the light, they make us real.
For every shattered piece of us,
Reflects our power without a fuss.

We've learned that broken does not mean lost,
Even with jagged edges, we pay the cost.
We try bring beauty to the world with art,
For each stroke we leave, a rebirth, a start.
Even when others see only fragments wide,
We know the truth, we carry it inside:
That broken crayons still colour fine
It's not important to stay in lines.

So we gather the pieces scattered far,
Press them together beneath a star.
We may never be whole, but we are enough,
With trembling hands, we paint through rough.
Every jagged mark we leave behind,
Colours the world with light refined.
In brokenness, there’s a lesson to remind,
A quiet grace, our souls intertwined.

To those forgotten, who bear unseen scars,
You are more than the pain that mars.
More than the shadows that haunt your night,
You are a masterpiece, your spirit alight.
And though the world may not understand,
Never forget the power in your hand:
Broken crayons can still bring colour,
To a world grey bland.

A splash of blue, a streak of red,
Shards of yellow where dreams once bled.
Each piece a story, sharp and torn,
A patchwork of hopes both lost and worn,
The box is full, but we don’t fit,
Pressed together, we don’t quite sit.
Yet in the mess, the scattered hues,
There’s a beauty found in the broken blues.

For every line that fades away,
A brighter shade will find its way.
The broken crayon’s tale is told,
In strokes of courage, fierce and bold,
Not all is lost when edges break,
For even shards can start to shake.
In fractured light, the colours rise,
And broken crayons paint the skies

So here is a gentle fact that broken crayons can still bring colours back ..

May these words hold you my dear friend ....

Deep in the darkest pits, the starving are vanishing. You toss them a crumb, then stand back and watch them rot.

You, all-powerful and unseen, beam your eternal cruelty over this grand, twisted scheme.

You let the young die, and those who still dare to taste life’s fleeting joys, But you won’t let the ones begging for an end just slip away.

Countless who now rot in the earth, once swore blind allegiance to you, died happily convinced they'd found salvation.

You keep the poor shackled, year after year, their desires more tempting than your so-called paradise. Too bad they never saw the light, but they died smiling, rotting all the same.

Many of us mock you, say you don’t exist and maybe that’s the best thing to believe. But then again, how could something not be, if it can play such a sickening trick?

If everything lives through you and can’t even perish without your say-so—tell me, what difference does it make if you don't exist at all?

I am told that the devil is a name
spoken only by the wicked and fearful,
a shadow cast on by the soul's yearning,
an accusation that stains the lips.
But yet they speaks of righteousness,
when their body trembles with desire?

"Who then amongst you dares to call lust a sin or immoral, when it beats like fire deep within your soul, the pulse of your life itself, breathing flames into the hollows of your hungry heart?"

It pulls the heart, it stirs the mind,
A craving wild, a tie that binds the blind.
but in its wake, the soul may weep,
For lust’s sweet dance, it cannot keep.

It wears the guise of want and need,
Just emptiness , yes the devil's deed,
It asks for more, and gives no peace,
And leaves the heart without release.

I walk through streets of gold and ash,
where the righteous bow their heads while sins they stash,
speaking of salvation like it’s a currency
but where are the truths of the flesh that you hide?

The humming of the earth, the warmth of touch,
the weight of hunger unspoken?
Am I evil because I feel it,
because I crave the warmth of a shadow,
that the righteous shun while desperately holding onto their immoralities in the night?
Pointing and judging because I found use in a name,

The words of old still whisper silently through the consciousness of man,
the devil sits in judgment,
but the chains that bind are thin,
woven of fear,
crafted from silence.
Is not the soul its own judge,
the heart its own trial?

So who is to say
what is right or wrong,
when we live and breathe in the dance of contradictions,
a life woven through our inflictions?

The righteous will speak
of what the devil wills and those that speak his name are his children,
but they will not speak
of how the cardinal sins call them
to feed there own mortal and immoral desires.
They will not speak
of the way love burns
when it’s wrapped in lust,
The will not mention how they bathe in gluttony, greed, sloth, envy, wrath, and pride.

Maybe the devil is not a name,
but a moment
an hour in the heart of the living,
where the body forgets its guilt
and the soul dares to claim
the space between dark and light,
where pleasure and pain
blur into one,
and I stand,
without judgment,
in the quiet ,after
for how can you judge me,
while your sins are ten fold.

I am the wind, that shifts endlessly, never still,
I walk the earth where mountains rise, then fall.
All things are born, yet in time they will die,
Return to dust, one truth, the greatest call.

Can you see the silent lotus, blooming through the mire,
Its petals soft, but rooted in the deep.
So too, you find wisdom through the fire,
In the darkest places, let your spirit leap.

The river’s current carries both pain and grace,
Suffering, like rain, falls where it may,
Yet through the storm, the heart must find its place,
For with each storm, the clouds give way to day.

In each breath, a universe unfolds,
Impermanence, the seed of all we are.
Let go of grasping, for life’s tale is told,
Not in what we keep, but in what we are.

Love is the sun, both tender and fierce,
A flame that melts the cold of selfishness in life.
In truth know this, that real love can pierce
And through the pain, your heart will be blessed.

Walk every path with mindfulness, let it guide your way,
Joy and sorrow, both will pass you by.
In every step, the truth will open wide
In letting go, you touch the heavens,

For I am the silence beneath your breath,
The stillness that holds all things in place,
When you release your fear of life and death,
You will see: you are then enlightened, and this is grace.

Who needs a cat with its smug, aloof stare,
when you can have a dragon
curled around your armchair?
No hairballs to gag on, no litter box smell
just scales that gleam like molten gold,
a roar that tolls like a dinner bell.

Picture this:
I’m walking my dragon down Main Street,
its tail swiping lampposts, its wings unfurled.
You’d cross the road, wouldn’t you?
No "Here, kitty, kitty" nonsense here
more like "Hey, don’t step on my dragon's tail,
unless you fancy a toasted rear."

Cats claw at your furniture,
but a dragon?
One good huff, and your boss is barbecue
promotion secured, no HR to sue.
And homework?
Gone in a puff of fiery breath,
like a snack too dry to chew.

Dragons don’t purr;
they rumble like thunderclouds,
a warning to the mailman
who thinks he’s brave.
Leave the package at the gate, sir
we’ll fetch it after he’s had his lunch break.

Forget scratching posts;
my dragon’s hobbies are practical:
lighting the grill for marshmallow feasts,
turning burglars to toast
(though they never get past the TV,
artfully left in his food bowl
how kind of them to step so close).hehe

Cats bring you mice as gifts,
but my dragon’s presents?
A flaming pile of junk mail,
your nosy neighbor’s fence,
and an accidental singe of the hedges.
The yard looks better scorched, anyway.

So go on, take your catnip, your bells,
and your feline "charm."
I’ll take a dragon with its fiery alarm.
Because when the world sees me astride my beast,
no one’s asking "Got a moment for Greenpeace?" No fella no time for that, have you met snappy.

Instead, it’s awe, it’s terror, it’s glory.
My dragon, my friend, my living story.
And while cats demand your undying affection

dragons? They burn your enemies.
No contest, no question.

Sometimes I sit here,
staring at the blank page,
wondering what to write about
what’s rattling around in my head.
Is it something profound,
or am I just ******* again?
Sometimes I think I’m winding people up,
other times, I’m genuinely trying to say something.

I write when I’m happy.
I write when I’m sad.
I write when the world looks beautiful
and when it looks like the bottom of a bin,
Even if it might smell a bit ******,
Sometimes it’s rage pouring out,
sometimes it’s a laugh at my own expense.
I never really know what’ll spill onto the page
maybe my heart, maybe just nonsense,
Unfortunately I won't apologise,
If my words are offensive,
maybe you the problem not me,
I said something about religious fella,
The other day while writing.

Someone told me in a comment,
“You’re going to hell. I’ll pray for you.”
“Brilliant,” I said, “save me a seat down there.
We’ll compare notes.”
It didn’t bother me
the offended always amuse me.
If they hate it, I say,
“Read it again or don’t read it at all.
I’m not writing for you, anyway.”
What do you want me to do ?
Say im sorry?
Never going to happen.

Faith? Oh, I toy with it,
poke at it,
hold it up to the light like a shattered bottle.
I’m not asking you to agree,
just asking you to think.
Otherwise, life would be boring, wouldn’t it?

Then there’s the poetry I read sometimes
half the time I think,
“What was this bloke smoking?”
Other times, I look at my own stuff and think,
“Maybe if I’d smoked something,
it’d actually be good.”
Where is that ****** muse when you need her?

The knock on the door the other day was priceless, though.
A couple of witnesses, chirping away:
“It’s your lucky day! You can be saved!”
Poor sods didn’t realize I’m already booked for hell.
“Come in,” I said,
“Tea? Oh, don’t mind the taste,
that’s just the poison.
Best get to hospital, hail the Dark Lord!”
They ran, of course,
and I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my tea,
a little dark I know,
but how else do i amuse myself when I'm fresh out of ideas to write about ?

That's when I tell myself, "Just another day."
What thrilling chaos will tomorrow bring?
While my blank page hungers for ink.
Another day to scribble in my mind.

You left me hanging, like a coat on a hook,
Thought I’d fold, break, crumble, take a second look.
But I’ve been practicing my loneliness skills,
I made friends with the silence, it fits me like chills.

You swore you’d always be here, a forever vow,
But I’m allergic to promises, just tell me how.
I feared you’d vanish, like all the rest,
So I built walls, then wore them like a vest.

I’ll blame you for every cold, empty night,
For the holes in my heart, that should’ve been tight.
But if I’m honest (and I do love being frank),
I pulled the plug first—so who’s the one to thank?

See, you thought you’d leave me, cast me aside,
But I was the one who jumped off the ride.
You never abandoned me, no, I set you free,
Turns out, I’m the master of leaving... ironically.