Everyday there’s a new story
A new plea that goes ignored
An outcry for protection
That the government “can’t afford”

A community is broken
A family in bits
A mother holds her dead son
It didn’t need to be like this

“My thoughts and prayers are with you”
What’s that gonna do?
It’s easy enough to stand back
When it isn’t affecting you

People post on social media
About the horrors of the crime
But how can they truly comment
When their school isn’t next in line?

A march to show the ‘big men’
What their little minds can’t see
Real humans suffering
At the word “death” they turn and flee

A 15-year-old boy bleeds
His life already done
He wants someone to hold him
His last word escapes, “Mom”

This is real, this is wrong
This is happening now
Children scared of education
In case they get shot down

So, now forget the hashtags
Now forget the thoughts
Now we need action
Not more ****** news reports.

This cosmic canister carries the world’s disarray-
Our destinations different, our feelings the same.
Though we have regular meetings we remain strangers;
Heads down, uncomfortable.
A pattern forms in our lives which none exits, our sacred routine which if changed is wrong.
Empathetic eyes glazed with weariness.
At each departure, a new inhalation of caffeine and smoke,
A new wave of bodies,
A new mass.
We all contribute to the mass, but the mass never goes,
Only waxes and wanes with the seasons.
We travel as one, carried by destinations, riddled with enigmas.
The hour reaches 6:00 and the mass bulges; the kettle is at its boiling point.
We move as agitated atoms riling against one another.
The world’s day draws to a close, as our microenvironment wakes.

A man exhales stale disappointment- no promotion due.
The coarse skin of his fingers caresses
The constant happiness in his life;
Helping him live, hastening his death.
Unable to inhale satisfaction, his suit clad leg
Writhes underneath the table,
Distracting him, but alerting others of the craving.
Although his tie is straight and his briefcase orderly,
A lose thread and weary eyes give him away-
He’s tired; tired of life, tired of the necessary endless routine
Which holds him and his livelihood captive.
It weakens and sustains him simultaneously.
His secrets define him.

A girl sighs, her cheeks wet,
Tears heavy with hurt.
A bruise has settled itself on her forearm;
A warning for the next time she comes home late.
Her skin has become a canvas and everyday more paint is added.
Her permanent ink hides the painful marks
Yet the latter seems to leave the most lasting impression.
Her face is scarcely discernible;
Metal studs line the place where her smile should be-
They are so many that her humanity becomes robotic.
Her secrets define her.

The tube we sit in holds heavy hearts, new smiles,
Old friends.
The mass becomes one as each day our routine returns,
Unchanged.
We get to know our fellow travellers
Without really getting to know them at all.
Their influence on our existence seems insignificant,
Yet they contribute to the steadfast mass that so grips our little lives,
Whilst we hold on to sanity by a single thread.
Our secrets define us.

If there’s one thing I can tell you,
It’s that you are all you’ve got.
When no one else is there,
You’ve got you, and that’s your lot.
So, make sure you treat her nicely,
Make sure you love her quirks.
Keep her safe and healthy;
Turn on the light if darkness lurks.
Make sure you understand
That your body is your home,
It’s yours for life and don’t forget
It’s the only one you own.
Don’t look at other ‘houses’
With envy in your eyes,
Remember that what makes a home
Is more than just it’s size.
Each little imperfection,
Every single tiny thing
Is a gratifying action
That makes your body sing.
Don’t ever put her down,
Don’t ever wish her away,
Because you, yourself, your body
May be all you have one day.

This chasm of disappointment holds crushed dreams and dead days; haunting sounds of tears reverberate through the dusty, lifeless amusements. Dried mud shelters a ticket to this graveyard which has been discarded- like the place, it is forgotten and futile. The surrounding trees sing the songs of childhood cries and melancholy mothers. The sordid smell of horror and stress as a father loses his child to the monster who carries hundreds to elation, still hangs in the air like a warning sign. The beaten ground has sacrificed herself to our indifferent society. The quietness lingers, muffling the rest of the world.
A man has found solace in this place- his cardboard bed upgraded to metal. He picks at the sallow skin around his fingers, the dirt encased in the material he calls clothes, and rearranges what he has left of his life which he can control- a pillow, a cup, a single sweet wrapper. The man’s eyes are glazed with a hopelessness that only comes from years of brutal optimism met with striking pain- the world which treats some with respect has spat him out all chewed up and broken. But, like me, this man has found a place free from judgement, uncontrolled by society. We belong in this forgotten place because we, this man and I, want to forget.
Peace embeds itself in everything here, and all the broken things crying in pain are silenced. I can still feel the presence of people who passed through this childhood rite of passage, weathered with the fleeting touch of time. A comfortable solitude attracts lost individuals- the cracks aren’t fixed here, they don’t matter- a broken thing can be a beautiful thing. There is no sound to distract, no judgement to detract- I can be alone with the leftover laughter and neglected rides; an exquisite damaged family of paint-licked metal and over-excitement.
Though desolation resides, I find beauty in the wreckage. Here I can think, here I can write.

seconds after it happens you will feel nothing; a numbness that somehow hurts more than anything. it will start in your chest, as a grey mist clenches your groaning heart and surrounds your lungs; like a life jacket it will keep you from drowning, while forcing your head underwater until you can no longer bear it. letting you up to breathe for a split second, then pushing you back under. torture. your thoughts will stop dead. your mind will tell you that the world is wrong, your heart will insist that you are not broken…
they are both lying.


years after it happens you will remember the pain, the scars will still paint your skin, but they will no longer sear through you, raised and angry; instead they will be relics of an old memory. in life, you will hurt, but you will carry on. and that, my dear,
is how you will survive

one day you’ll realize
one day you’ll understand
how much it hurt
how you broke me into a million pieces
and then stamped on my ruins
there will be a moment
when you finally get it
when your world will go dark
and you won’t be able to see anything but pain
when the only thing that could save you
you pushed out of your life
like I was a temporary lifestyle
a cigarette break
and in that moment
you will look for me
and I won’t be there