I’m crouched in the same dark cold corner.
The empty damp corner of my cell.
The corner I’ve sat in for so long.
The corner I know so well.

Every chip in the paintwork.
Every damp patch on the floor.
I know this corner.
It’s the same as it was when I came before.

But it now seems I’m here forever.
There’s no getting out this time.
I’m going to sit in this same lonely corner,
till my spirit goes and I die.

The cold, the damp, the hunger pains.
The feeling of being alone.
The loneliness of waking up,
and seeing the walls you’ve seen for so long.
No one around, nothing to call your own.

The feeling and warmth of the sun shining through.
I jump up and down to try get a view.
But the hole is too high, I can’t even smell,
and nobody hears me if I yell.  

But what’s the point of sitting here each day?
Time goes by - Boredom...Decay.
No one now thinks of me, nobody cares.
I might as well be dead or not even born.

The day I die, leave this hole,
will be my liberation away from it all.

Copyright: Gordon Warren (1986)

A cigarette packet jumps at the match, nobody loves us anymore.
We’d rather eat ‘Mars Bars’ and drink milk.
Than have a “long-slow-***** against the wall”.

So what is happening to you?
What is happening to me?
We’d rather sit watching paint dry
and wait for the cow to jump over the moon.

Empty glasses wait to be filled and beer mats begged to be torn into two.
Looking around at the spots on the wall,
haven’t we been here before?

So much has happened we don’t wish to be seen,
hide behind papers and books.
While people get tortured and killed on the street,
We’d rather watch ‘Big Brother’ than believe it’s all real.

So what is happening to you?
What is happening to me?
We’d rather sit watching paint dry
and wait for the cow to jump over the moon.

Surrounded by people that neither of us know,
So cool and exciting, with places to go.
For them an adventure, a world to create.
For us the candle burns slowly, the flame soon is spent.

But I’m sure it’ll all go away.
If we close our eyes tightly and cross all our fingers.
The tooth-fairy will make it okay.
We’ll wake up tomorrow and it’s all been a dream.

But the sky is still grey and the sun’s gone to bed,
we just sit here and twiddle our fingers.
Can’t think of what to say, it’s all been said anyway.
It’s all been said in so many ways.

So what has happened to you?
What has happened to me?
We’d rather sit watching paint dry
and wait for the cow to jump over the moon.

Copyright: Gordon Warren (1991)

I came into the world, locked up in a death camp,
imprisoned for years with the same people.

This was my life, my only existence.
I knew nothing else except death and decay.

How much more can we all take?
The world is alien to people and peace.
When will we all wake up from our sleeping?
We can’t just go on in the same old ways.

For years, I was confined with pain all around me.
For years, I saw and smelt nothing but death.
For years, I was stepping over decaying corpses.
The mutilated remains of historical past.

We all spent years killing and maiming,
making peoples’ lives such a great misery.
We all just took whatever we wanted,
making people suffer for our own selfish greed.

But all this suffering didn’t affect me.
It was my whole life, my only real world.
No other reality came into vision.
This was my only true view of the world.

For years, I was subjected to pain and distortions,
which I accepted as nothing but the norm.
I believed that suffering would always continue,
that death and decay could never be stopped.

But in the outside world, I saw a new vision.
The real world around me was different and new.
I can now see a new life, a bright new reality.
A different life in a different light.

You see, I accepted it just without question.
I couldn’t see anything but despair and loss.
I thought we were powerless and had no future.
I believed it all for I knew no better.

Copyright: Gordon Warren (1981)

A friend of mine was unemployed,
he didn’t know what to do.
So he went down to the Army office and
said “I want to join you”.

So they sent him off to war,
for something he didn’t know.
They put a gun in his hand and
said “shoot the ones across the road”.

So he squatted down in the mud,
with the ****, the bullets, the bodies and the blood.
Trying to think of the ones he loved.
Trying to ignore all the death and the pain.

Then he saw the enemy come up to him.
He got his gun and went over to them.
He looked him straight in the eyes,
“That’s the first mistake”, the Officers replied.

For he saw a young man about his age,
he said “You’re the enemy, I must shoot you dead!”.
The man said “Why?” and stood there still.

My friend was silent and thought a lot.
His mind went crazy, he couldn’t shoot.
He couldn’t see why the war was on.
Why was he fighting? What’s to be won?
Why shoot a man the same as him?

So he put his gun on the ground,
and the enemy did the same.
Then the Officers went up to them,
and shot them both in the brain, and said
“They should have played the game”,
and went back from where they came,
to carry on the war,
like all those times before.
Safe in their bunkers,
with a gin and a straw!

Copyright: Gordon Warren (1986)

Sitting in the corner, curled up small.
Hiding my face, back to the wall.
Knees pulled up to my chin.
Defences up, letting no one in.

Hiding my shame, hiding my past.
Hiding my hurt, deep in my heart.
Letting no one know me inside.
Letting no one see me cry.

Hiding my hurt, hiding my pain.
Keeping the guilt going, driving me insane.
Feeling *****, feeling used.
I’m so scared and confused.
And lonely.

Copyright: Gordon Warren (1990)

They're silent now.

No more endless empty words.

The previously clean paper that was so hastily cluttered up with meaningless drivel to justify their already decided plans, now sit unreadable.

Not a word is being spoken now as a look of stunned surprise on faces that once were clean, smug, and pretty as a picture  would look pale from shock if they were visible and not now bathed in blood and fragments of brain.

A brain that once was so full of thoughts, experiences, images, hopes and dreams.

A brain of a person that had done so much and wanted to do so much more, but was so ground down by the struggle to convince others.

A mind that for a split-second forgot who possessed it and forgot the people he so loved, that would be so hurt from this one, fleeting, solitary moment of madness.

But how can this brain that was put to such good use, now be splattered on tables, across walls, and over the last two inconsequential people to have ever seen me before this act?

By taking a gun from my bag, quietly and without emotion, into my hand, pressing firmly into the bottom of my mouth, all it took was a quick snap of a finger to metaphorically stick two up to them, and to all the others who couldn't give a ****, slicing a hole straight through me, launching a cascade of blood and body tissue into the air, across the room, and over the representation of all that has hurt me.

The decisions they make so easily, in the comfort of their own lives, without a thought for the human cost and waste of talent and potential, becomes just ink on paper.

But that pen became a dagger, ripping out my heart; and the paper that only moments ago was being filled up with my pain has now become the blood-drenched ocean of my soul.

You couldn't or wouldn't see what was on my mind and inside my head before, but you certainly can't miss it now, as it drips down your cheek.

I wanted to wipe away that empty and meaningless look I saw on your faces as you mechanically noted down my comments that I knew meant nothing to you and would go no further.

So now do your best to flick off the blood and please make sure it's all properly written up, reported on, and filed away neatly, in the organisationally detached way that all good little servants and agents of pain and misery always do.

It's so much easier to do the devil's work when it's not happening to you or anyone you care about. Wrap yourself up in the policies and procedures; insulate yourself from the person; do only what the rules say; comforting yourself in the 'organisational justification' for change; and breathe a sigh of relief it's not you or those you care for or love - at least not yet.

Through the red of the blood soaked window, a bird flies free.
What drastic steps to have taken for that to be me.

But the bird now flies home to its loved one and chicks, but sadly this will not now be for me. There's only so much a person can take.

But when will those with power and privilege see and care?
Usually not till it's far too late, as they now sit there dripping in what used to rush through my veins, giving me life and a reason to be.

I hope your reason to be, your actions and disinterest, has been worth it?
Your memory of my last breath into your face and my head exploding into your eyes might just act as a reminder.

When you see reports about an atrocity splashed across the news, and hear the repeated cries of "why?", maybe the answer for the one responsible might just be "well, why not?"

But that might be too difficult to fathom in this shallow, myopic, sound-bite driven world, so hooked on demonising, labelling as mad, and looking for easy answers for want of anything more useful.

From knee-**** reaction and tireless and narrow 'Daily Mail' rants against anyone or anything that doesn't fit their limited view of the world.

Most things don't just happen for no reason.

The reasons might be hard to see for many, especially when they don't want to see, but for those driven to such desperation they are likely quite rational to them in their world, with their experiences, their pressures, their pain, and their responses, or lack of anything beneficial from others.

When potentially destructive seeds are planted and their care is continually ignored, or their roots so callously ripped away, don't be surprised if something unwanted grows.

Maybe firmer foundations, better planting, regular watering, and careful appropriate tending would go a long way to help.

Copyright: Gordon Warren (10/1/13)

“Violence is bad”, children are told,
as we hit them again for doing things wrong.

“Violence solves nothing”, we repeatedly say,
as we march off to war to get our own way.

Surrounded by rants against the evils of hate,
as another bomb is planted to end the debate.

“War is so wrong”, they forever preach,
until they crave something that is just out of reach.

Protesting for “Peace” at a Military base,
the same day the protestor ***** his best friend.

But "**** is so bad", the media bleat,
next to some ******* and a titillating piece.

“I **** you for your beliefs; you **** me for mine”,
the unbelievable ritual of the slaughterhouse kind.

So it’s “Just another war for ending all wars”,
such nonsense is spoken to justify their cause.

Disfigured by violence, a child cries “why?”,
deafened by the world’s silence and covered up eyes.

With whispers of peace, silenced by hate,
lost voices at night, and echoes of rage.

Surrounded by cries lost in the dark,
only the loudest get heard, the rest leave no mark.

So do we hate death? I reckon we don’t,
as new ways are invented to take what we want.

Our love for the battle, of guns, power and fame,
is a far too seductive and profitable game.

But longing for peace and an end to all wars,
starts inside each of us, not slogans on boards.

Until anger, greed and hatred cease inside us all,
the foundations for violence will never fall.

(c) Gordon Warren June 2014

For centuries we have all been fighting wars.
Taking up arms and going off to fight.
Fight because we’re told to or because we think it’s right.
Taking up arms to fight the good fight.

War becomes a habit – If you let it.

So we all go out and **** all our foes.
We gun them down and pick over the bones.
We leave them for dead rolling about in pain.
And sing Christmas Carols when it’s over.

War became a habit – And we let it.

Copyright: Gordon Warren (1980)

We both met each other and both our lives were changed.
The future could be better, but the past it still remains.
Today we were together, but your ghosts were in the room.
Haunted by the memories that never leave alone.

People beating you and knocking you around.
Abusing your body, doing you down.
Saying hurtful words that stick in your gut.
Making you feel bad, no future, no luck.

Some might want to change you, to mould you, to sculpt you.
To fit their own image, to copy their model.
But you can only be you if you believe in yourself.
You can be so beautiful if you trust in who you are.

What’s inside is what really shines through.
You’re a beautiful person, don’t do yourself down.
You’re caring and honest, warm, bright and real.
Believe in yourself, for you are what you are.

But you are what you are, not how others might see you.
You can only be you, not what others might want.
You’re not an illusion, a dream or a vision.
Be proud of who you are, believe in yourself.

Copyright: Gordon Warren (1990)