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Rereading old writes
The familiar heartache,
unending pain, the paradox,
the ****** and contradiction
I must be trying so hard
to tell myself something
but I never learn

Reopening old wounds
Touching nerves,
the skin burns, the watering eyes,
the fights and the lies
Cutting ties and goodbyes
The drunk ***, the sent texts
So many regrets and  so much stress

A sad read, a happy memory
A lifetime of love and irrelevant stuff
What am I doing?
Questions, no answer
long walks in parks after dark
with  nothing but a pen in my hand
and heart in my throat,
quick sand and so much smoke
I don't feel I just shake and shiver.
I wished that I wrote you a poem
so here it is, the final piece of me
that I'm prepared to give
"The sting, the grief of love lost"

"the hardest part is that
I know it's just growing pains"

"I miss being able to see faces"

"why do things get complicated
in the search for simplicity?"

"we find solace in companionship
we are not solitary creatures
we are man and woman"

"You're fine, son."

"Let me be
Your barely living proof
That happiness
Is hard to find
Just don't ask me why"

"I was so busy trying to live I must have forgotten to breathe"

"I'm sinking, I'm drowning under
Endless streams of confusion
I wonder
If I could stem the flow
Could you silence the thunder?"
Under my wings,
you could fly so high
but high is never high enough
when days become
for counting
the weekends a necessity

So confident that I bring you to refuge
from the cold, harsh and boredom
when the warm fumes will intoxicate you
into a better reality
for your life means nothing
without me
******* are itches like skin conditions
forget the admissions and feelings and visions
find yourself in a position where decisions
are void, because there's no choice,
no recognition, my voice is an imposition

With no occupation, or real reason to function
I'll spend my money on medication 'til
I'm believing what I'm seeing
Something is weighing on my mind heavy,
roll up another blunt-skin,
***** open another bevy,
Something is playing with my mind lately,
just write a couple bars
Yeah, that'll tell them nothing maybe

My hopes were up, but they have come down
It's too often we carve a smile out of a frown
just to fit in
           when we were born to stand out
So as a rule tell others how you feel,
not let em figure out
Honesty's my policy, unless I think they're on to me
and now I've lied again
I better turn my life around
In a short life, I've been much, I've been proud
I've been up, I've been down,
I've been chewed and spat out
Left out in the sun, left out to dry up on the ground

But all the aspirations that I'll never meet,
can be recycled to ambition if I get back on my feet,
But all the things I was promised, that's deceit
the act or practice of deceiving,
concealment or distortion of the truth,
for the purpose of misleading, so they got me bleedin'
and everything I want, I'm not receiving
and everything I need, I know they're keeping
Eight years old or so
I'm condemned to a joke
but I never understand the punchline
I just figure it's all a hoax.
Padded cells and restrained holds.
Perspex acrylic windows
render my spit useless.
My captors are fully grown
but I've seen the breadth of their moral compass
They will fold on it shortly now, I know they will.
Though they never do.

I'm fifteen years old give or take
when I lose my first child.
It was never born, but I know I wanted it.
I pretend I am not sure because
there's a lot of heat and pressure
cooking my heart, engulfing my head.

Crying over the phone to my girlfriend
a painful necessity, something my soul needs.
We are too young, careless, reckless,
confused and surrounded by ogling eyes.
I haven't had a lump of hot coal in my throat before
but it sure feels like I have when I try to speak.
Especially with my parents.

Pause, rewind
I'm six years old,
my younger sister is four,
my youngest is two.
My dad enters my play room.
Proceeds to tell me he's leaving home.
He won't be living with us anymore
but he'll always be my dad and
I'll always be his favourite and only son.

Dry my eyes and fast forward, please.
A little bit past devastation,
we'll stop somewhere around reckoning.
It's right after desperation.
I am fifteen years old again, some time has passed
since my unborn child left its mother
as nothing more than matter and blood.
The mother has left me.
Probably because
she was in even more pain than I
and wanted to confide and find comfort
anywhere else but in me.
I never could heal the wounds I helped to create.

It's time for work experience, I'm sixteen soon.
That's practically an adult in the UK
I get to work Queens' College May ball.
Maybe this time everything will be okay.
Shadowing sound technicians.
Sneakily drink the free *****,
since I always look much older.
Sun rises, I'm drunk and my mouth is dry.
I think I'll walk home.

Mum picks me up, I don't even remember why.
My hometown is only five miles across
I've travelled the best of it and then some.
Yet my gaze never left the sky.
I want to escape myself so badly I leap from the moving car.
I'm crying in the car one minute,
I'm crying on a roundabout of a dual carriageway the next.
The police arrive and mum's crying now.
Begging never worked before but this time it does.
The police officer says something about section one three six
and I am taken.

Whilst I wish I could have realised sooner,
I think I get the message now.
Perhaps I was never meant to achieve great things.
Or ever meant to find happiness in my life.
It could be that I was never meant to be anything
other than what I am and what I am
is the embodiment of sadness.
Unhappiness is tangible around me.
You can feel it, touch it and see it.
I can taste it and smell it, I breathe it.

It's me.
Me and me alone, surrounded by faces but alone.
The thought of loneliness is lonely indeed.
When thoughts are just emotions' greed
and it's our own expectations of life
that make it harder to succeed.
I've travelled cold, a road with no milestones.
Only icy tipped hurdles that are mountains
and I can't catch my sadness,
and I can't catch my breath.
It is not wrong to be white
and to have dreadlocks
you may look like a pleb
but you offend me not
Nor would it offend
a black rastafarian man
of a temperate manner

I don't know any women
with white skin and
straight hair that get offended
by afro-caribbean women
wearing a straight weave
You're all just too soft now,
you're all just pet peaves

Stop getting offended
on behalf of other people
that don't even take offence
Excuse me,
whilst I build a fence
around myself hombre
Not to keep me here
but to keep you at bay

Cultural appropriation
doesn't exist
Cultural misappropriation
doesn't exist
You're all just
champagne socialists
You should get over it

Yes, you mate
The one that thinks
he's above
and must decide what is
politically correct
and whose life matters

In the end all this is
is a series of cultural
exchanges and we're
all wading through ****

Face it.
A bit of salty food for thought.
Just one more amitriptyline
and then I'll be dead
at least from the neck up
a perfect slumber,
forever restful
a perfect slumber,
never stressful

I know what it feels like
to be barely twenty-three
going on forty-six
walking over hot coals
sleeping on sticks

So I throw stones
to break bones
and creative havoc
to feel something else
something other than
this pain I've carried
for too, *******, long

With the weight of twelve bricks
on my head its
nigh on impossible
and it hurts my neck
to look to the future
in a positive light

we're all getting older
and yes, I know
that I'm still young
because I remind myself
of this all too often

I'm surely too young to
feel this way and
I'm surely too numb to
see it another way

I don't see anything
I only feel everything
the good, the bad
and all the tragedy in-between
I never dreamed I'd know
what it feels like to be born
a bird with clipped wings
There's nothing like running
your fingers through wheat
as you take a footpath
through the farmer's field
especially in the dead of night
when the silence speaks volumes

Though I wouldn't know
'*** I'm a city boy
I always say
a life better lived on
the road less travelled
clearly wasn't for me

Cloudy days and
cloudy apple cider
go hand in hand
with hand rolled cigarettes
and unread messages
and a qwerty keyboard

Things are gon' get better
things better get gone
have I neglected my writing
or has my writing neglected me

Thoughts are just electricity
surging through your brain
tiny little electrical impulses
molecules and whooshy stuff
I could do with some of that
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