I pick dandelions
in the early spring
when I think of you
She loves me . . .

I cut the rose blooms
in the summer morn
And I am pricked
by the remembrance of you

I walk in the autumn gold
as I shuffle with the agony
of the memory
Yes I do

Now in my winter's demise
I wrap the cloth of your smile
around the cold heart's desire
that I once had for you

There will be no dandelions
this spring
No roses this summer
No leaves of autumn's color
Without the smile of you

Sitting in front of a screen,
Empty rooms, empty voices
Writing again words like always
Hiding pain in the pixels.
My soul is with me,
Yet my soul is very distant;
Everyday faces, steady paces;
Inescapable vices, real faces
Yet, again, as empty as before.
The more I sink myself in,
The more I drown in my own sea.
I can't fathom being the backdrop to your main roles
So I try to pass the course to be just like you.
No matter how many scars I get from your stares,
No matter how many bruises I get from your words.
But it hurts!
I can't do it anymore!
But still what do I do everyday?
This!
The cuts grow deeper!
The bruises grow larger!
I should be used to it already,
But the more I stay the more I perish!
What choice do I have?
Being truthful would be a sin.
Call me an attention ***** all you like!
'Cause I wouldn't listen to your lies, anyway.
I want to smile real for once.
I want to see if there are some like me,
Even just one.
I want to shout at the top of my lungs,
Even if you cage my voice.
I really want to reach out and grab your hands,
*But, there's nothing to hold on in the first place.

All of the shining mad ones
With their heresies of reality
And other visions and other voices
Are not diminished
By the multitude of choices
That is their truth
Upon each waking day

They are woken by the howl
From beyond the first ear
And into the deeper mind
Where there is other language
And blinding colours of emotion
For madness has the purity of pain
That martyrs can only long for

                                           By Phil Roberts

We've been
Through a lot
You and me
Best friends for
How long?
Over ten years
And that's at
Eighteen.

Last week
You told me
That if you had
All the money
In the world
And could give me
Anything
You would buy me two corgis
Because that's what
I deserved.

But if I
Could give you
Anything

I would give you back
Every tear
You ever
Considered crying
Whether or not
It actually fell
All sealed up in a
Case of fancy glass
Bottles
For you to toast with
At your pleasure.

And I would find every
Single
****
Person
Who ever
Hurt you
And make them
Feel pain
Kick them
Directly through the
Stratosphere and leave
Them to die
Choking
From a lack of
Oxygen
On the moondust
Of who you
Would have been
Without their hands
Around your neck.

I would
Wind the clock
Backwards
Fast forward through
Your entire
Missed
Childhood
And find some kind
Of cosmic compensation
Celestial retribution
For every lost
Second
Every tainted
Home movie that
Still plays
On the screen
Of your eyelids
At night.

Speaking of night
I would hand you
Every sleepless
Hour
You ever lived through
Refund the three a.m.'s
You gambled
And lost to
Anxiety
Smooth away
The tiredness
Soaked into
Your very
Existence.

And I would hurl
Every
Last
*******
Lie
You ever believed
About yourself
Down into the
Hellfire and brimstone
Where it came from.

Because all you ever
Deserved
Was peace of mind.

Now that I've reached this place
Nearer the ending than the start
Where memories can't be trusted
With flames in my brain
And storms in my heart
I shall not be reconstructed

                                          By Phil Roberts

There's a big deal made these days
About ****** harassment at work
And quite rightly so
Who needs a heavy breathing half-wit
Slobbering over them at work?
Or anywhere else
If it comes to that

But I remember a time
Oh what a time
When I started work in the sixties
As a bobbin boy in the mills
And when mill girls
Were wild wild women
And we were their targets
We became swift of wit and feet
Very quickly

And I remember clearly when
Dear old "Make 'em 'ave it Phil" Doris
Grabbed Dougie Hibbert on his own
Hiding in the bobbin racks
She put his **** in a milk bottle
Then horned him up so he couldn't
Get the **** thing off
Then shouted everyone
To come and see

                               By Phil Roberts

Shallow pools
so still
filled with dripped dreams
long decayed.
Fearful whispered words
will echo under their weight.
Because not every circus has
a drunken clown,
nor revolution a song
and not every scream means
something is wrong.
It's a reticent forgotten poem
existing in an amorphic state.