Why does the thin grey strand
Floating up from the forgotten
Cigarette between my fingers,
Why does it trouble me?

Ah, you will understand;
When I carried my mother downstairs,
A few times only, at the beginning
Of her soft-foot malady,

I should find, for a reprimand
To my gaiety, a few long grey hairs
On the breast of my coat; and one by one
I let them float up the dark chimney.

there was a moment in time
when death sat beside me on a park bench
and he had rested his hand on the gap between us

i,

too,

rested my hand there
and brushed my fingers against his

and for a chaste moment
i savoured the warmth of his skin
and intertwined my hand with his

but he stood up

and left

and maybe he knew,

it was for the better.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Dull ruts and periodic lulls, cast
Iron wrought.
A life of sea salt;
Choking on ocean foam, walking
On rusty bones
Sifting through ashes.
It's all growing old

Beat down, but still around
My school days
Kicked and punched
All at once
Wounds with scars
Called out many times not my name
Totally lame
Tormented
I was saw as weak
Being easy to defeat
I deserved to be picked on
People’s wishes
I tried to remain strong
I even tried to get along
The bullies weren’t going to have it
I had to fight to survive
It was all in my stride
Reasoning definitely didn’t work
It took all of my Faith to win
Suddenly the bullying came to an end
Overcame
Fulfilled
Destined
I proved unstoppable
Unbreakable
Victory
My story
Defined glory

Did you notice I was gone?