I don't want to write today
I don't want to go through my head
I want to leave my mind grey
I want to go to bed

I don't want to write today
I don't want to talk about the life I have led
I want my thoughts to stop stirring away
I want things to be better left unsaid

I want to write today
I want to leave behind a shred
I don't want this time to pass away
I don't want to leave nothing when I'm dead

If you want to be an oak,
think like an oak,
not like an acorn.

With his head in his hands
And his heart on his sleeve
He closes his eyes against the light of day
And against his quiet despair
He pretends it is not real

But part of him knows
Deep down amongst half-remembered dreams
Emotions that appear from nowhere
And linger
Every cell of him knows

He knows a loss without closure
A conversation without words
Dreams without endings
And hoping without hope

He hears a knock on the door
But no-one walks in
He puts his head in his hands
And his heart on his sleeve
He pretends it is not real

                                           By Phil Roberts

It's such a strain listening
To the sound of one hand clapping
It wears and tears at the best
And I'm far from that
So, I'll take my tired heart
And empty the rattling contents
Into the nearest ******* bin
Kick a tin can down the street
And await whatever comes next

                                               By Phil Roberts

Freshly ground coffee,
love wafts in the morning air.
Is it here to stay?