Sometimes Life tells me that I'm nothing
And Sometimes I use to tell that Life is nothing..

How foolish of me to let you be sober.
To settle for something I thought would be better.
There were a lot of what if's and wishful thinking.
But now, all what's left is just nothing.

I am really sorry for what I've done.
I know you're hurt and already moved on.
But so you know, I just can't help this heart of mine.
Please let me come back home, just one more time.

Would the taste of joy be less sweet if we didn't experience pain?

Would success be less triumphant if we never knew failure?

Would the innocence of a child be less endearing if corruption wasn't pending?

Would the right to freedom be less powerful if we didn't experience tyranny?

Would this poem be less impactful if we could not find an answer?

I put my trembling

hand in hers

when I was four

and twenty years

now twenty more

are come and gone

and yet my trembling

carries on

for different reasons

though I don't

remember when

those reasons changed

and all I have

is foolish hope

that one day they may

change again ....

I've been
up and down lately,
well..
more than lately,
kinda jumpy too 
Y'know...
Figure if I jump high enough
with the earth spinning beneath me
the way it does
I'll see it all
for free...
Mostly I jump
waiting the next bus
on cemetery hill,
up and down and up again
watching burials
intermittently
over the wall,
my now you see me-
now you don't appearances
are part of the mourning process
in Selly Oak these days;
leaving folk in holes
with dirt on their faces,
their chests
and their feet
frightens me,
seems gravity's got
a hold on them
forever now,
so I'm glad for
the days when smoke
stacks exhale
and the wind
is filled with people,
I feel the bounce
in my sole remembered
and I know
sooner or later
I too will catch an updraft
and fly....
I've been
up and down lately..
well..    
more than lately
I've been kinda jumpy too
Y'know ?

her innocence is soluble
when dipped in
expectations,
her mirror;
like the bottom
of dinner plates,
her wrists are
tire marks on
gravel roads,
she sees not
what we see
but in what he
sees is what
she cares
but who is he
now?
a riptide splitting
face paint
saturday nights,
veins of toxins,
staring at roadkill
and streetlights
and garbage
hugging curb-sides
mixed with dust
days followed
with headaches
and remorse
dying not
I can see it in her
eyes
she’s only 16
                           MJB