It’s one of those nights
where light fades
and life gets tiring.
Lonely enough
my demons
does not even tap my shoulders,
they don’t even critique my choices
they sit there silent with a placard saying;
“You love her. We love her. Don’t let this **** bring you down.”

Poems and photographs are so much alike.
When I realised that a poem was
a mere record of what I felt,
an emotion captured so well,
much like how a photograph captured the moment.

i still fly
with tired wings

so she was reading my stuff and said to me
'why do you hide this?
put it out there for people to see'


well I'd like to, but the
      horses would catch me

(read forward, then backward, line by line)

I ran.
Not knowing what else to do
There was so much blood on my hands
It was mine
The kitchen knife
Caught in my chest
Guilt
Consumed by
Fear
I was heightened by
Adrenaline
But running on
Wasn’t enough
While trying to stay calm,
Losing control
It was me that would end up
Dead. Because
He was
In front of me
The whole time
It was too late
Trapped
I found myself
Locked in chains
My fate was
Death.