Last year my head was empty
but my bin was overflowing.
My hair was grey with stress and fear,
my sanity was going.

I went to see a doctor
who'd learnt neurology.
He took one look at me and cried,
"Why, this is just too easy!

At least give me a challenge
and some research work to do
I can instantly identify
the problem ailing you."

He sat me down upon a chair
(to counteract the shock)
and told me it was just a case
of Common Writer's Block.

Despite my huge sigh of relief,
the fear did still remain.
For what was I to do now my
ideas had all been slain?

The doctor was not fazed by this
and gave me purple potion
and to this day, I've found no cure
that beats pure Inspiration!

I'm really very sorry,
But I've done something bad,
I missed out on my reading,
I hope you aren't too mad

I was distracted by my holidays,
And stayed away too long,
But a small voice in my head told me,
That I was in the wrong.

So here I am returning,
Back to novels once again,
I hope you can forgive me,
I'll try to make amends.

Back, in years long gone
still plays a broken waltz
Three steps through a pitch black room
and back.
Gently, we moved through the heat 
and the dark, heavy air was sweet with our breath
and purple with our touch

Tick tock tick
the dance is new.
It beats around the room
and we can't keep up
with the rhythm
that refuses to be learned.
It shivers and shakes
we cannot help but sway, stumble
we break away.

Purple, deep and haunting
wraps us in a soft embrace
as we wander, alone,
through forgotten days
and back

When lilac perfume crept between us
there was comfort in the thick scent of summer
but even that, like a half-remembered sun
could not pierce this dark

Now, as the rain scrolls by the window
and the fading light trembles,
three small flowers in a vase
nod to a half-forgotten tune.
Muffled, it plays on,
an echo in the shadow
of a clock long gone
and I remember the smell of lilacs
a waltz
and dancing in a pitch black room

Bang! went the nails,
Crash! went the drill,
Down went the table,
And all was still

Poems need not be sad
Or angry or mad
With endless lines that go on and on and on and on and on about broken homes an broken hearts
And false starts
That painfully chart
The awkward writer
From darker to brighter...

No, instead they can start
With a poetry ****
Pure expression, release
Once out they bring peace
Just put words on a page
Don’t think, just engage
They don’t have to be long
And they don’t even have to be rhythmically strong
Short or ugly or loud,
Will do just fine, that’s allowed
As long as you write
With all of your might
Let go
Of the words
Let them flow!

Get rid of what’s stuck
In a head full of muck
Let them out and they’ll bake
You a metaphorical cake
That does what you need it to do
Even if it’s not good enough for a national poetry competition because the scansion’s all wrong

Capitalism swings securely
from the crook of her arm
while Slavery  gently
coils itself
around her
beautifully damaged waist...

Racism coats the
soles of her
brand new shoes
and leaves print print print
on the harsh
unforgiving
unemployed pavement.

The world cried, died
as she dyed her hair
to Honey Suckle Blonde.
It hangs: drab, limp,
strangled by the Ignorance
sitting firmly
on top of that
pretty little head.

Jagged, matted wrists
rattle around inside
imported bangles
(or manacles)
of Oppression and
Depression and
Suppression
They're in fashion.

Her eyes are drowning
in Jealousy Mascara (new)
and I Hate You shadows (old)
and, together,
her weeping heart
and painted nails
claw at Fame and Fortune
but the new shoes
and gorgeous boyfriend
just aren't tall enough.

She limps
past shattered windows
in which she glimpses a girl,
or rather, a young lady
who is very much a
prisoner of today and not
A Leader Of Tomorrow

Glorious in splendour
Delicate and fine
You fill the sky with luminescence
Elusive in your shine

Night by night your gaze does rest
Upon the ruddy world
Day by day you faintly smile
As life on life unfolds