On this anopisthographic format,
Seems contradistinguishable
To my previous puerile verses,
Disharmonising against contrivances
To be intelligibly indicated,
Through dimunitive confabulations,
As habitually optated by
My personal preferations.

With a pocketful of medicine,
And an optimistic air,
I set out to cure the world.

I had no idea, when I first set out,
Just how far my journey would take me.
I had dreams of dragons,
Heroic battles, and the vast expanse
Of the seemingly endless sea
Racing through my mind.

My friends, not knowing the true
Reason for my adventurous ways,
At first tried to discourage me;
Convincing me that to help myself;
To put myself above all others,
Would be, if not nobler,
Then at least more sensible.

Ah! My friends! Did you not realise,
That you were just encouraging
My foolish deeds more so?
For me, true happiness lies
In the smiles of others, and
The joys I inspire.

I find no pride in accomplishing
Deeds that fulfill other needs;
Diplomas and job offers
Sail over my head, and I
Pay them no heed.

Such accomplishments should be
Left (in my opinion), to kings,
And emperors, and others
Who I pay little regard to,
Who find such happiness
At receiving a scrap of paper
With not a jot of poetry on it.

I remain of the servile class.
By my own admission and actions,
I shun those who would have me
Believe that my past life,
The one in which I ruled,
If not the world, than at least
The part of it I so ignorantly knew,
Was a happier one.

So far there have been no dragons,
Save for the ones I carry with me
In my imagination,
The heroic battles I fought
Have been with no-one but myself,
In the recesses of my mind,
And the vastness of the ocean,
Carries itself, past the distant shore,
And into the hearts of those I love.

As I reach into my pocket,
I find the goods I carry to be
No more than sugar pills-
A placebo of the mind, that
I am told is good for nothing
By learned physicians, who know
Far more on the subject than I.

Thus I find myself in this foreign land,
With nothing but my optimistic air
To see me through.
I wish no more than to lend my hand,
And show others that I care.
Tell me; Is that a placebo too?

Today I asked a child of three
What it is he wants to be
When he grows up, and so he
Gave this as a reply to me;

"I want to be GINORMOUS just like you,
And stomp, and roar
Like a dinosaur!
And grow my own beard too!

I want to be able to walk 5 steps
To get wherever I want to go,
Like a scary big T-Rex
Who knows all there is to know!"

It makes me sad to think one day
He won't think I'm so outstanding
But for now we smile, and laugh, and play,
And both minds keep expanding.

There's nothing quite like
Being appreciated
For something that you've done,
When your own words strike
You as overrated,
Childlike and dumb.

This is how you write a poem;
First; forget everything
You ever learnt about poems,

                                Such knowledge should be reserved
                                For the minds of critics, and
                                Professors in dusty halls

                                                          ­­           Of universities, where
                                                           ­          They are dissected and re-
                                                             ­        Constructed against their will.

Second; embroil yourself in
Love; it is the only thing
That poetry is born from.

                            Even the saddest songs, and
                            Most bitter lines, are fueled
                            By what we once loved. Loss is

                                                            J­­ust a love that has been lost
                                                            ­­And anger; a love scorned. All
                                                            y­­our words will be born this way.

Thirdly; find a quiet spot;
It doesn't matter much where
As long as it brings comfort,

                             Be it an old desk in a
                             Darkened room, or a field of
                             tall Sunflowers or bluebells,

                                                     ­ ­       Or the last place you saw a
                                                             Loved one, before fate swept them
                                                            ­­ Away to distant valleys.

Next you must make a promise to
Yourself to be brutally
Honest. Only the truth must

                              Be written here. There is no
                              Room for flowery words that
                              Must be thought over to much.

                                                          ­­   If it is true it will be
                                                             Beautiful, and your pen strokes
                                                         ­    Will guide you towards greatness.

Finally, you must hold your
Writing implement of choice
As if it were the most loved

                                 Of possesions, or mighty
                                 Of weapons, or a  child's hand.
                                 I cannot tell you which

                                                          ­­ But you will undoubtedly
                                                     ­      Know which when the time comes. It
                                                           Will strike you as obvious.

Upon following these steps
You will have become a
poet. From now on there

                                Is no turning back. It will
                                Consume you, and thoughts will take
                                You by surprise in lover's

                                                        ­­  Embraces, in sudden deaths,
                                                         ­ Bird songs, and the words of of those
                                                          Y­­ou once thought to be strangers.

Each word will be a gift to
The world, whilst remaining un-
doubtedly yours to own.

                                        Use your power wisely.
                                        Remember; without love
                                        Your poems will start to

                                                             ­        Fall into disrepair
                                                       ­              And, without them you will
                                                            ­­         Lose your capacity to care.

I wish you well.
                                    I wish you poetry.
                                                         ­      ­           I wish you love.

I woke up this morning to the strangest feeling-
I could feel you next to me.
Not your physical presence of course-
That remains unknown to me
Being, as it may well be,
On the other side of an ocean,
Atop a distant mountain,
Or in a different realm entirely,
Filled with mythical creatures,
In a place where poetry is born.

What I mean is I felt your soul,
Reaching out to me
After last night's late night drinking
In the privacy of my own room,
Come to tell me I was not alone,
Whilst at the same time saying;
"This is not you.
Well...Not the you I'm used to, anyway-
What went wrong?"

I hesitated for a moment,
Considering if this was
My own conscience speaking to me,
In which case it would be acceptable to cry,
But I knew such tenderness could not be my own,
And had no wish for such a beautiful being
To watch tears fall from my eyes.

"I don't know" I said,
And hated myself instantly for the lie.
This awe-inspiring soul, who had travelled so far
To share such a wondrous presence with me,
What right had I to feed it such ugly untruths?
I felt ashamed and hung my head...
"I hate myself." I said.

For a moment I thought you had left,
Sickened by this display of self-pity,
And my ghastly morning breath.
Then I realised you had enveloped the entire room.
In an attempt to bring me comfort.
You had filled the cracks in the door,
And surrounded each wall
From ceiling to floor,
And waited for me to speak.

I cried fully for five minutes at least,
And there was no beauty in it.
No gentle tears or quiet sniffling.
Just heaving sobs and ugly ****** contortions,
Interspersed with heavy breathing,
And snotty tissues.

When it was all over
I felt you on my shoulder
(Not my heart- you accepted, you afterwards said,
That I keep some parts hidden,
Even from myself), and then
We talked, and talked, and talked,
About everything, until I felt
We were only words- nothing more.
Not voices, or sounds, or written letters,
But just words who understood each other perfectly.

Finally, you explained to me
How to reach you, but, being a soul,
Your directions were untranslatable,
And I could not follow them
Despite my burning desire to,
So you went on instead
To reveal the purpose of your visit.

"Your soul is trapped." you told me,
"Within the confines of your body,
And I must travel so very far to see it.
It is the only part left of you
That still loves itself, and if it leaves
It is afraid that you will die."

I had never given a thought, before,
To my own soul, and how
I must have been keeping it,
Trapped under lock and key
Behind my own self-loathing,
While it yearned to be free.

So as you left I promised you this;
That I would learn to love myself,
So that my soul may find eternal bliss,
And find you in good health.

I assure you, beautiful one,
That I am trying...

I've got that feeling once again,
After staying up til 3 A.M,
When insecurities start to creep,
And I curse myself for lack of sleep.

It seems I have no way of knowing,
Which way my thought process is going,
One day I'm happy, the next I'm glum,
And console myself with smoke and ***.

I try to find a compromise-
Get blasted drunk, and close my eyes,
But the world keeps spinning round and round,
Bottle's empty- no peace found.

Like the Irish airman in the sky,
I seem to watch as other lives flash by,
Then I pass out, hoping I'll never know,
The places those tormented souls must go.

Do you ever get the feeling
That you've tried your very best
With self-love and self-healing
But have somehow failed a test?
And realise you were concealing
Something you had left repressed?

As you start to feel that everything
Finally goes your way
And you laugh out loud like your a king
And regret nothing you say
Or do, or write, or feel or sing,
And you think "what a wondrous day!"

Until you look around and realise
Not everyone feels the same
And as you look into their eyes
You feel just a hint of shame
That you've ignored those peoples cries
And feel that you're to blame.

It's not that I'm not happy
with myself- because I am,
But I realise that to feel that way
I must help my fellow man,
Because improving someone else's day
Helps me feel the best I can.

I wake up every morning
With laughter in my head,
And sometimes as I'm yawning
I wish that I were dead.

It turns up as I am writing
And scoffs, grunts, and guffaws,
This laugh I'm always fighting
Which says; "you have no cause."

It's tone is not a pleasant one-
I know this very well,
But I'll not let it spoil my fun-
That laugh can burn in hell!

It and I are now connected,
And I can't wish it away.
'Though that laugh is unrespected,
I accept it's here to stay.

I sometimes wonder, as I'm yawning,
If that laugh makes me a better man,
Since I know every single morning
I've already faced the worst I can.

I broke my heart into pieces today-
It scattered all over the floor,
My friends stood and stared at me blankly,
And said "what are you doing that for?"

I broke my heart into pieces today-
It seemed like the right thing to do,
I figure now they can cover more distance,
And hope one of those pieces finds you.

I left bits on the train in the subway,
And some beneath shady old trees,
A few dozen in pages of favourite books,
And let a few drift on a breeze.

Yes, I broke my heart into pieces today,
As people gave dumbfounded stares,
I tried to explain to them calmly;
A broken heart's one that still cares,

So I broke my heart into pieces today,
To stop it going withered and black,
Hoping maybe one finds the right person,
Who is capable of loving it back.

I left one of them in this poem,
If you find it, dear reader, take care!
It is capable of loving you fully,
Though it's barely a wisp in the air.

The sensistive topic of religion
Occasionally causes some division
Amongst those who don't agree
Which is plain for all to see.

So let us broach that well known religion
That loves to claim logic when causing division.
The faith that I speak of is, of course, atheism,
(My view that it's a faith can cause much derision)

Now from a purely agnostic point of view,
It seems such beliefs must rely on faith too,
How else could you justify all that you knew,
Is infallible, and therefore must be true?

I know many people will want to attest
That religion doesn't apply to the atheist,
Which is why it's surely the silliest
To declare itself better than all the rest.

You took my hand and asked me to dance,
But I was far too tired to do so,
The simple act of walking being far beyond
My limited capabilities at that point.
I had been reduced to hugs and kisses,
And tales of how glorious my past lives had been,
And holding hands.

I wondered if I should let go- it seemed so different,
From any I'd ever held before, that hand.
For years I'd held others with the sole
Intention of drawing pain away-
I am not capable of creating happiness,
And I've never claimed otherwise.

Your hand had no pain to draw away though,
Or at least none that I could find,
Which startled me (All the others held so much!)
I had thought I knew all there was to know about hands-
Their needs, and all the varieties they come in.
How they all needed comforting in different ways
For similar ailments- grief, loneliness,
Heartbreak, being among the most common.
I'd even learnt to hold phantoms limbs for a few.
I'd move the pain aside, lessen it, or sometimes
Even take it as my own, releasing it when no-one else was looking,
Into a stone, or an abandoned old house.

But your hand simply said "I am here to be held."
It shocked me so much I didn't realise I was
Walking again. You glided gracefully ahead
As I clunked behind, unsure of myself,
Holding on to you, trying to figure you out
In the short window of opportunity I had left.

I saw it as our interlocked fingers departed.
Somewhere in the webbing between your ring
And index fingers on your left hand
Was what I had been searching for all along.
I won't go into detail about what I saw
(Our pain is no-one's business but our own),
But I saw it though, far more beautifully arranged
Than I thought was ever possible,
Noticing you had stolen some of mine
When I wasn't looking, and wondering
How much damage I had done.

I don't know whether I danced with you or not,
The release answered so much while
Explaining not quite enough.
I watched you, enraptured by the way
The pain never once showed
Through those beautiful, happy eyes,
Which never seemed to break.

Now I wonder if I had held your palm
Not too little, but far too much.
The pain I saw was labelled thus-
"Life experiences- Please don't touch
All is well. Please remain calm."

There's been a lot of talk amongst the others;
They say you think you're still alive,
And none of them have the heart
To tell you otherwise.

They say you still gasp for air while you're crying,
And that you still believe in pain
And suffering, and they can't help but run to you
When you call another's name.

Which distresses them deeply, and yet
Whilst they no longer understand what you feel,
They see their former selves within your ghost,
And wish your happiness were real.

Our words have power. Our story is important. I think it's important to remember that, and I know people forget it sometimes (I certainly did), and some people don't believe it at all, but I believe that even if nobody is listening, even if there's no-one to tell your story to; it is still important.

Sometimes it's all we're left with and we have to cling to it with all our might. We're lucky enough to be main characters in a lot of other peoples stories and that's a hell of an achievement. We get the chance to influence other peoples stories,and they in turn influence even more peoples stories. Without us, everyone elses stories get shortened and there ends up being less variation in the story-telling world. If we don't add to the storytelling process then the whole world slows down.
Every single relationship we establish with someone gives them more of a story to tell. Even if you don't make a story of your own you're still a vessel for other peoples stories to travel through, and that's amazing in itself.

The tiniest detail can change everything - the memory of holding a hand, a snippet of information, recommending a favourite ice-cream, falling over in a hilarious manner - it travels through other peoples stories, and without you that story doesn't get told, or gets told at a later time by someone else, by which time the person you could've shared your story with has missed out on the chance to pass that story on to a whole host of other people. That changes the whole storytelling world. Every future chain of events in which you could have, but didn't, tell your story becomes different - there's less of a story, it's not as full as it could have been, and everyone, albeit unknowingly, suffers a little more for it.

Most of us aren't wise enough or powerful enough to be the true "wise man" that our speices name **** sapians implies, changing the world in a dramatic way in one fell swoop with a single action or in the course of our lifetime, but we're certainly capable of being pans narrans (story-telling apes) and injecting a bit more variety in the lives of others. I can't think of a better reason to exist other than mattering so much that the whole future of the world becomes less varied, and slightly less impressive, if we simply cease to be.

Every moment of joy, every moment of anger, rage, suffering, jealousy, euphoria and even numbness contributes to the stories we end up telling other people, even if we're not talking about those moments specifically. We learn from them, we change because of them, and the stories we tell evolve with each new experience.

You don't even need to write yourself, sooner or later, somewhere down the line, someone will write something that never would have been written if you had not existed, and their work will be all the more glorious for the stories you helped to pass on. You are literally part of a bunch of great works yet to be written. You are a poem. You are a play. You are the beginning, middle and end of several bestselling novels. You are the first sentence in a book that grabs a publishers attention and the last in one that spawns a whole franchise. You are important and without you the whole literary world loses a masterpiece that would make a whole bunch of people feel like they weren't alone in the universe. You are their comfort as they lie awake at night with nothing but a book, and the inspiration that causes a child to believe in themselves. I can't think of anything more important than your words, your thoughts and the story you have to tell, but I know that, without them, the world never becomes as glorious as it could have been.

I love you, I know that others love you as well, and I'm certain that a part of the love that people feel for you will travel throughout the stories they tell, eventually end up in a famous book, song, or an artists brushstrokes and cause someone else to love that piece of a story you helped create.

And then they'll pass it on...

I don't know how to write of love,
It's unfamiliar territory,
Like a hand in an oversized glove,
Or a moral with no story.

If I could write about the way
I put all faith in you,
And how you returned that faith to me,
That alone wouldn't do.

I could write about attractiveness-
Of skin as smooth as milk,
Of eyes that heal my sadness,
And a touch as light as silk.

That still doesn't quite do it though,
It doesn't seem enough,
To quote the cannibilistic king-
"This subject is quite tough!"

I could write about the words we share,
When we're together and alone,
Or of holding hands in public,
Or crying on the phone,

Or how we long to hold each other,
Or hear the other's voice,
How just being with each other
Feels like the only choice.

Yes, I could talk all day about the way
Your feelings make me feel
But as fishing-rod designers say;
"It's time to make this reel."

Because real love's not as romantic
As the the love seen on T.V,
Or how it looks in certain books,
And classical poetry.

There's arguements at midnight,
There's anger and despair,
And times when you may feel like
The other doesn't care.

There are times you feel you're talking
And the other doesn't hear,
There's feeling you're not good enough,
Caused by jealousy and fear.

It's giving the other power
To destroy your hopes and dreams,
To tear your heart completely
And sometimes that's how it seems.

No- I don't know how to write of love,
Because the realism shows through,
To quote the cannibal king once more-
"This subject's hard to chew."

So I will not bore you anymore
On things I can't convey
And feelings which I am not sure
You're feeling anyway,

But I'll leave you with some sound advice-
Being in love can be the best,
Or else it turns your heart to ice
(To which many can attest.)

I won't recommend you plunge right in,
Or back off altogether,
But it will not stay as it begins-
Love changes like the weather.

I oftentimes recall a boy,
To whom all life was simple joy,
Who never let life get him down,
And reached for the celestial crown.

Although inside his heart was broke,
He'd treat life as just a joke.
Good friends he never seemed without-
To see him smile removed all doubt.

One day he ate a box of pills,
And finished with all earthly thrills,
To think of it brings me a chill,
I wish that he was smiling still...

Auden wrote "weep for the lives your wishes never led."
But I think it's better to be happy instead.
Why need I shed tears and feel such regret?
I've the rest of my life to achieve better yet.

I might not be sportsman, I might not be a star,
I may not be rich or drive a flash car,
I may not be known in my own local bar,
But who is to say that I won't travel far?

"Wheat is wheat" Van Gogh once said,
"Even if, at first, like grass it seems."
I've amazing things inside my head,
And I can paint my dreams

And oh, my friends! The things I dream
Would make you laugh and cry
As they focus on the age-old theme;
The persistant question- Why?
Sometimes I'm the cat who's got the cream,
Others; a web entangled fly.

It matters not much what I do,
Much more so what I think,
So to quote the great W.C.Fields;
"I believe I'll have a drink."

The best way to get over an issue,
Is really quite simple in my eyes,
Simply stop viewing it as a problem,
And it becomes a nice surprise.

A death becomes a family day out-
Put the fun back into funeral!
The deceased has probably moved on,
To a place that's far more beautiful.

Your lovers left you? Not to worry,
The memories are here to stay,
And if we're going to honest,
She's probably happier this way.

Can't afford to pay off the mortgage?
Cheer up, silly - let's go camping!
It was just bricks and mortar anyway,
And the place needed revamping.

If you lose your job keep that chin up,
What you have now's a holiday!
Let's be honest - your boss was a ****,
And you won't miss him anyway.

You've got writers block and poetry,
Flows no longer from your pencil?
Me too! That's why I forced these rhymes,
And I show lack of potential!

Did you know that dogs
In their natural state
Never bark?
That we gave their sprogs
Such an acquired trait
For a lark?

They would whine and growl
If they were left alone
To be free,
A dog will even howl
But won't bark on its own
Naturally.

Sometimes I meet,
With art so sweet,
It almost turns me vegan,
A piece of meat,
Could not compete,
With a painting done by Tegan.

Sometimes it seems,
She paints my dreams,
Or as close as anyone can,
If I had to choose,
Between this or *****,
I'd be a sober man.

I'd feel such grief,
With no relief,
If she chose to give up paintin'
And I'd fill the hole,
Inside my soul,
With whiskey and with bacon.

"Write a text about someone you're glad to have met"?
There's not anyone who doesn't fit that bill yet!
How could I choose one person who's reached out to me,
Through private conversations or their fine poetry?
Oh, dear sir, I wish I knew how to explain,
How I love even those who would wish to complain,
About my writing style or the person I am,
Or who write things about which I don't give a ****.
Each one's caused a change with how I see the world,
With each word a new perspective is unfurled,
Each as important as the one that came before,
My only regret is there haven't been more!
I must reject your challenge before I've even begun,
I won't choose one person - I'm glad I met each one.

Don't do that and don't do this,
The things we're told from birth to death,
But all this life is **** and ****,
And charges you for every breath,

What we drink and what we eat,
What we write and what we make,
Where we go and who we meet,
What we give and what we take,

What we are and what we do,
Unless we choose the pills or knife,
The only choice left we can make,
Is when we choose to end this life.

Some people write, but rarely read,
That seems to me most strange indeed,
They've read less than a hundred books,
Yet think they imitate the looks,
Of Sassoon, Cummings, Keats and Pound,
Or think they imitate the sound,
Of Lennon, Dylan, or Shakur,
And sometimes think they've offered more,
Than Chaucer, Wilde or Shakespeare could,
And claim they're more misunderstood,
Than even Salman Rushdie was,
Which really ticks me off because,
After having read such wondrous works,
A sense of failure always lurks,
Inside me whenever I write,
Yet they think they've done well tonight!
I hate them all! That's it - I've said it!
But they won't know until they've read it,
Which is quite doubtful, I'd attest,
Who'd read my work and skip the best?

I sometimes wonder
if I were to write the word "gullible"
on the ceiling in cursive script,
how many people would have
enough faith in me
when I told them about it
  to look up.

There's a thin line
between trust and gullibility
and I'd like to think
that none of my friends
would be so gullible
to believe that I was lying
based on the public opinion
  of what I said.

Regardless of what the world
may think of me
with their downcast eyes,
my friends would look above
for the truth in my words
  and smile.

I can fall in love with your words,
Without ever meeting the person behind them.
I could be infatuated by what you have to say,
Without ever hearing a moments speech from your lips,
Feel touched without the need for physical embrace,
Because every emotion shared is a kind of kiss.

It's certainly not romantical (although it offers no barriers to such),
No, this is something far more real,
Transcending the animal need for the flesh to intertwine,
So much more than the roundabout hellos and goodbyes,
Beating even the are you OKs and I feel that way toos.

It's the simple "I am here. This is me."
So glorious in its simplicity that it could break a heart,
Or mend it, depending on the reciever,
Although I suppose the point is there is no reciever,
Like the triumphant cry of the lone mountaineer,
Or the screams of a mother who's lost her child,
Only far more composed in their release.

I sometimes feel like I'm reading words not meant for my eyes,
(And, in a sense, I suppose they're not).
They are far more beautiful than words that need to be read,
These are words that were meant to be written.

I find myself hating humanity to its very core,
Although each individual has traits I love endearingly-
Every last one- (even ****** created works of beauty),
But you, who have encapsulated a piece of divinity,
Within such common things as words - I love you more.

If you cannot be bothered to sift through the ****
You don't like, then there's no sympathy, not a bit,
That you get as you announce such pompous airs,
Declaring your work to be better than theirs,
When clearly it's not, and your criticism fails,
To amount to much more than an infants wails.
O maybe, just maybe, if I saw you had written,
Something worthwhile yourself then all would be forgiven,
Talent aside, if you'd chosen to write
Something constructive, instead of such trite,
Then the words that you said on deaf ears wouldn't fall,
But that's not the case so they're worth ****** all,
So next time you see someone's work you don't like,
Before you comment, here's a tip - learn to write.

No.
No it is not.
Never do that.

Sometimes, when I'm trying
To pretend everything's alright,
Though, inside, I'm dying,
Someone sees my inner plight;

"Nigel...Are you crying?"

I manage to hold in the tears,
As if I thought their release,
Would spread the subject of my fears,
That will not leave me in peace.

That's why, when I'm sighing,
I will not confide in you-
When I feel like dying,
I'm afraid you'd feel it too.

"Nigel, please stop crying."

If I stop the pain from spreading,
By keeping it all within,
Then there's not a tear worth shedding.
"Are you crying Mr Finn?"

"No. I am not crying."

"I call people creatures sometimes
That may not
Be a good sign"
        -mikecccc*

I can't help but wonder what the writer's trying to convey,
And in my mind I picture one of the creatures who say;
"We're much more like people than humans are anyway,
As proven by Jean Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet,
Inheritance played a part in changing human DNA,
Which caused you to view every creature as prey,
So next time you blurt out a line so passé
Remember it's us you're insulting today."
And with that the fair creature returned on it's way,
Whilst the humans returned and lined up for their pay,
Earned from the torn earth and the creatures they slay.

I ask my fellow writer a question if I may;
Was it your intent to insult creatures that day?

I like to say I am a childrens book writer,
When I'm asked what it is that I do,
Some people say "he's a modest old blighter!
He's written good stuff for adults too."

I'm afraid I must correct what some people view,
As the simplelest past of my work,
So I say "That's correct, I write adult stuff too,"
And then over my face spreads a smirk.

"But my childrens poetry is much better stuff."
(And at this point their eyebrows arise),
"The audience", I tell them, "is far more tough,
They need intrigue, and twists, and surprise,

At every stage of the story, on every page,
To keep them listening from cover to cover,
Otherwise those dear kiddies fly into a rage,
And will start screaming at father and mother.

But adults are far easier to calm with a book,
It's the children's stuff of which I'm proud"
They then tend to fall silent, and give me a look,
As if what I said wasn't allowed.

Some try to argue; "But surely," they say,
"A thick novel is what good writers aspire
To be known for?" but I don't feel that way,
My aspirations are much, much higher.

A close friend of mine said to me
"I don't know how to write poetry.
I wouldn't know where to start
With creating such art"
And I told him I disagree.

"Just write whatever's in your head,
And keep a notebook by your bed,
And I guarantee
The right words will be
Hidden somewhere in what you said."

Days later he returned with plenty
Of work that rhymed and thought it meant he
Was now a poet,
But when he showed it
I saw limericks- not poetry.

My OCD is running wild again, causing me to think things
That I really know I shouldn't. The same things over
And over, and I know I can't escape the thoughts in my own mind.

I strain with all my might to put another thought there;
"I need to stop thinking this. I need to stop thinking this",
Like trying not to think of white bears.

Untill the cycle turns to another set of thoughts,
Getting closer to what I desire, but not quite there;
"I need to stop thinking this. I need to stop thinking this."

Knowing I need to stop thinking those thoughts
Becomes a thought in itself, and I know- I just know
They'll bring me to tears if I can't stop them;
"I need to stop thinking this. I need to stop thinking this."

Distractions! That's what I need! Something to stop the mind racing.
Something I can physically do without disturbing everyone else.
Softly I start saying nonsense words to myself;
"Monkeys and aliens. Monkeys and aliens."
Hoping they won't hear me in the next room.

Is it helping yet? No, no! Don't think like that!
It'll only last longer if you think about your progress;
"Monkeys and aliens. I need to stop thinking this."

"Stop talking; I can't concentrate on the words you say,
And it just reminds me that I'm still not okay.
Just give me a moment. Yes, alright then. A coffee. Fine.
Just please, please, stop offering your help.
I need to be able to do this myself."

"Unicorns, dragons and Boggel-de-rumps!"
Yes, yes! That's it! The nonsense poems you wrote
From the days you thought you were happy.
They'll help you out, no doubt!

I whisper the rhymes to myself, slowly calming down
Such joyous, happy, bouncy words!
How could I ever be unhappy with such words around?
Oh yes, that's right, I remember now;
"I need to stop thinking this."

It has come to my attention,
And I feel the need to mention,
That someone let their dog **** in the garden.
Now I know that that sounds crude,
And I have no wish to be rude,
So if that word offends your ears I beg your pardon.

But until your dog stops *******
Near the place that I am sitting
Then you and me appear to have an issue.
If I ever catch you in the act
Of letting that dogs intestinal tract
Dump on my lawn I will provide you with thin tissue.

To pick it up may not feel nice,
But unless you follow my advice
A more unpleasant fate I have in store for you.
Because a **** I clearly give,
So I will find out where you live,
Squat on your lawn, and calmly have a poo.

Sometimes I stop just short
Of writing a poem, and write
A confession instead.
Then I realise what I thought
Were only harmless words just might
Be better left unsaid.

My poetry has no consistent theme,
Or single writing style,
I simply jot down what I dream
Every once in a while.

I appreciate the daily sight
Of words someone elses owns,
That inspire me to try to write
A better work than Sticks And Stones

I always thought it seemed to be
A glorified, extended limerick
Compared to others on the daily-
All of them! Take your pick!

This rhyme is an apology
To those who may have thought
That I may show some consistency
In the writing of my poetry,
When I have not.

I used to wear tinted glasses to hide my eyes.
I don't just mean every now and again,
But all the time- outside and in.
I'd scrabble for them in the morning,
Groping wildly in the sunrise.

If, by some chance, anyone happened to spy,
In the brief moments I removed them,
And say "What beautiful eyes Mr Finn!
Oh whyever do you hide them?"
I would never tell them why.

But now I don't seem to mind so greatly,
So here's the truth; I downright hated
The way they always looked so **** happy,
Even when I wasn't. I always felt
As though they betrayed me.

It didn't even help when I would frown.
I would practice in the mirror,
Contorting my face into grimaces,
Willing my emotions to be clearer,
But they let me down.

Now that I'm older I don't mind,
And have begun freely accepting
Their emotional misdirection,
Concealing the feelings underneath
To which all others seem blind.

I'm reminded of a MacEwen piece
Since, openly, my eyes conceal the truth;
"What if the whole show was a lie, and it ****** well was,
Would I still lie to you? Of course I would"
If those lies bring you relief.

You ask what prison feels like;
Well basically, you see,
It's mostly just a bunch of rules
About where you should be,
And quite a lot of it's the same
As the things you do whilst "free".

It's about showing scraps of paper
If you want to travel far
(Much like passports), shown to men
Who don't know who you are.
(I know describing the next wing
As "far" may seem bizarre).

Then there's other scraps of paper,
Which decide what you should earn.
You get them by completing courses,
This encourages you to "learn",
And then you blow your weekly wages
On tobacco ("smokes" or "burn")

Which you can trade amongst the cellmates,
(Despite a watchful eye),
For illicit goods, or lend it out
And double your supply,
And all these things convinced me
You're just as free as I

It's just a case of space and time;
I can still pursue my art.
Whether or not you're caught for crime,
Freedom's only in your heart.
(And if you don't believe me read this rhyme
Again, back from the start.)

Ten words are not enough
To explain life is tough

Don’t get arrested if you’re poor!
There’s no way they’ll let you go!
Privilege just means private law
To those who’re in the know

And if you ever wondered why it seems
The system disregards your self
It’s because you are on separate teams
"The law"’s an anagram of "wealth"

But do not worry, not all’s lost,
You poor demented yob
You can have freedom at a cost
-The freedom of the mob

Oh sure, The mob won’t listen
And doubtless will not care,
But it’s guaranteed admission
To most likely anywhere

But where will the people rally to?
Well, you may think this is funny –
It’s the same place that they always do-
The mob follows the money.

And the people rule the country
The same way as did the few,
But now you cannot blame them
Because "the people" includes you.

Last night I sat down in the street
And played a game of chess
With a homeless man I chanced to meet
Near my old Cambridge address,
And thoughts of victory or defeat
Mattered little (perhaps less).

The only thing I cared to gain
Was this mans company,
And I found it quite hard to contain
That it meant the world to me.
(Was it silly of me to refrain,
Since it filled my heart with glee?)

I won the game and thanked the man,
But as I walked away
I knew I didn't have a plan,
And felt the urge to stay,
But the next game had just began-
"Hello sir! Want to play?"

I wandered aimless through the night
Not feeling quite the same.
I cried, as though I thought it might
Help wash away the shame,
Untill a voice helped ease my plight;
"Would you like another game?"

A gallant knight he seemed that night;
A castle until dawn.
Whilst bishops hold religion tight
To tell us right from wrong,
And kings and queens provoke the fight
The pawn protects the pawn.

When words were stolen from my page
I flew into a useless rage,
But then I came across some lines
Which helped me through those angered times.

It was Poetry Journal (MVP)
Who pointed out the theft to me.
Ajey Pai K also showed
The plagiarism, and bestowed
This knowledge for the world to see,
And challenged them to disagree.

I did some research to discover
This matter clearly touched another;
Scout Pilgrims poem said "Don't be
An *******!" to writers like me,
And so I tried to write some verses
In appreciation for the curses
You heaped upon the plagiariser
Whilst I, myself, was none the wiser

If it wasn't for people like you,
Who helped their fellow poets through
And valued the writers honesty,
I'd give up writing poetry,
And although this poems not my best
I need to get this off my chest
So I'll force the rhyme to make it so;
I appreciate it lots- thank yo!

Some people, in trying to ascertain anothers character, ask;
If the world were to end tomorrow, what would you do?

Others, rather depressingly, ask;
If the world were to end today, would you notice?

Yet still there are those, who hope and search for a deeper meaning, who ask;
If the world had ended yesterday, would you understand?

The darker side of my mind is where
Abstractions of fragmented poetry breeds;
A baby lies dead in a Hong Kong gutter,
And my lines fall into place.

Broken hearts sing lullabies to me,
Two savage beatings spare me a verse,
New Orleans lends me four at low interest,
And throws in a haiku for free.

The old veteran quotes me three lines
And gets buried with the last.
The rhyme festers with his body;
Both soldier
                      and verse
            are
                       free
                                       again.

I can't explain the beauty I see
In the dying faces of the abandoned ones,
Nor tell you why, if the bomb were dropped tomorrow
I should weep in both anguish and delight.

I can only tell you, should it all end,
Should all modern horrors dissapear,
The future will weep for the joys of the present
And smiles will dissapear forever

As someone with OCD,
And knowing that it is biochemically
Indistinguishable from romantic love, I agree
With those who claim that "love is an illusion"
And point out to those who disagree
That I have found it many times over and still feel that way.

I don't believe in love,
To believe implies doubt, and a leap of faith,
So no -I do not believe in love.
I also do not believe in tables or bananas,
It is simply enough that they exist.
That does not, however, mean it's not an illusion.
Therefore; [insert your own reality/subjectiveness/quantum stuff here]

Love is beautiful, and also an illusion.
If that takes the beautifulness of it away from you
Then you need to realise that illusions are real too,
Just not always easy to understand.

Your performance is to poetry,
What an ****** is to *** -
Finding gems like yours
Makes me go "YES, YES, YES!"

I suppose what I was looking to achieve at first was to end my pain. It really is as simple as that. Just a rather ****** "**** it! I give up!" sort of feeling. I didn't like myself anymore but neither did I dislike myself either. It's a hard feeling to convey if you've never felt it, although i've never been comfortable with people suggesting I was "numb". "Numb" is how the doctors got me to convey such feelings and no doubt in the confusion of the multiple changes of doctors, nurses and support workers (It was an average of a different doctor every 9-10 days for the first two months), coupled with the no doubt hastily scribbled notes and vast amount of paperwork on me being handed around, it was probably taken literally on a number of occassions (and perhaps, in the official records, still is). It is not, I feel, a good word to describe how I felt.

Everywhere and everything was a source of feeling. I was just sort of balancing it all out in the middle. I'd still have the majority of the days emotions ticking along normally (well, i SAY normal. At the time it was pretty much rage, hatred and severe depression but at least I have words for these!).  I still have no way of accurately conveying what i mean in words but i think the closest way i can get to describing it is to say it is like a sort of emotional version of simutaneously trying not to think of pink elephants whilst trying to turn yourself into a pink elephant and the feeling you get in between not being asleep and waking up. I realise that that's still wholly unaccurate but hopefully it describes things in a way that's at least understandable, although probably still not relatable.

Those feelings changed somewhat after what was my fourth attempt to take my life. Fourth attempt - fourth method of hastily induced death. I had chosen that particular night a large cocktail of drugs consisting of (if memory serves me right) about 20-30 Quietiapine (200mg) (an anti-psychotic i was being trialled on at the time that also induced sleep), roughly 50-60 hydroxzine (25mg) (an anti-anxiety drug which also doubles as an anti-histimine which reduces the nausea experienced by overdosing) and probably in the region of 150 or so co-cadomol (500mg) (a rather strong painkiller).

It seemed I had all I needed to end my life. I walked down to the park at night, sat in the gazebo and started to take the pills with some lucozade. It wasn't exactly a sombre moment but it wasn't like I had anything exactly to be happy about either. It took about half an hour to take all the pills and that was taking them 5-6 at a time. It was like a sodding pill-popping marathon that i couldn't give up untill they were all gone. Then they were all gone and there was nothing left to do but wait.

Only as I was waiting, it happened. The only genuinely life-changing moment I ever had. It was like I could feel myself slipping away and a thought came to me. Words that, for the months preceding that moment, would've caused me to fly into a blind rage, to scream and cry and shout. Words that I had tried rationialising against for what felt like an eternity whenever they were directed at me. Words that from the mouths of doctors filled me with hate, and from friends filled me with tears now came to my mind both as old companions but now, strangely, also as new friends;

                                                              There's nothing more you can achieve...    

                                                               You've done all you can...

                                                               Move on...    

It's not a case of "I don't think i've ever been as happy...". I know i'd never been as happy. So much relief, so much tension in one fell swoop just vanished in the time it took to think a thought. I've experienced crying with happiness before but i sobbed that night. Big wails of happiness that got stuck in my chest if i tried to hold it, tears streaming like a tsunami down my cheeks and just so much happiness that i couldn't contain myself. I wanted to sing and since there was no reason not to i did, songs of freedom, songs that meant the world to me, songs i'd sang as a child, songs i'd made up, songs i was still making up. Imagine every problem with everything just dissapearing instantly. Every thing you've ever been even slightly worried about gone. That's were i was. I was IN THAT WORLD. It didn't matter if it was just in my head. It was real. It was final. It was mine.

This is my soul,
I see you here,
Though many may think this is queer,
A world away, or even more,
I look, I see - It's you, I'm sure.

This is my soul,
I hear you here,
Though soft you whisper in my ear,
I hear your every word so clear,
It helps me rise above the fear.

This is my soul,
I sense you here,
That's why I do not shed a tear,
Although your gone, you still feel near,
I can be with you forever here.

This is my soul...

Sometimes, it seems, the world looks bleak
-Devoid of love and kindness,
And people find it hard to speak
With fair words and politeness,

So I take solace in being alone,
In a nice secluded spot,
Where I can find my comfort zone,
And remember those forgot.

It seems they’re always on my mind
-They invade my every dream,
It’s in this place I feel I find
What COULD be, not what’s been.

A world in which I stand aside
Is not the one I choose,
But, still, I hypocritacly confide
In cigarettes and *****.

“Just relax!”, they seem to say
“And live as best you can!
Just make sure that you’re okay,
THEN help your fellow man.”

I see the wisdom in those words,
And yet I can’t help feeling
The words of ghosts my memory herds,
And packs from floor to ceiling.

The ghosts that visit say they are
Not from past or present day,
But sad omens of the future,
Who beg me; “Please;- Don’t go this way!”

Once upon a time in a happy little land
Was a man who saw bad things
And ever since then this happy little guy
Has been afraid of what tomorrow brings
So the happy little man took a solemn sworn oath
And solemnly swore to change things
But the happy little guy didn’t know what to do
About what tomorrow brings
So the happy little guy tried to try, try, try
But it ended up worse than before
He got annoyed at his friends
Who saw beginnings, not ends
And said “What are you doing this for?”
This made the happy little guy start to cry, cry, cry
Because he didn’t know how to explain
That yesterday felt like the end of his life
And tomorrow brought suffering and pain
So the happy little guy tried to live for today
Although sometimes it didn’t seem worth it
He kept a smile glued to his face most the time
Although inside he was quite far from perfect
Sometimes he fell in a pit of despair
And since his today never ended
He just thought of the who, what, the when and the where
Until all of his thoughts were upended
Upon all the papers that scattered his room
But  still nobody seemed to know why
It wasn’t the yesterday or the tomorrow
But today that caused him to cry
So the happy little guy, with a smile on his face
Carried on living life as it was
And when anyone asked him why he felt disgraced
He’d answer, quite simply; “Because
The moon and the sea do not mean much to me
As they will do what they do anyhow
But the products of human creativity
Will ruin the here and the now
And if I cannot change merely one little thing
That causes such suffering and pain
Then tell me – if I should just walk away
Am I not as much equally to blame?”
The happy little guy got this in reply;
“There’s nothing that CAN be done,
You must let things be as they must be
Even though it’s ******* horrible because it essentially means you’re worthless and are incapable of stopping anything nasty happening to anyone at any time because that’s part of life and you need to stop thinking about it and move on with your life. Your existence is basically pointless unless you keep smiling because no-one cares about horrible things unless they’re affecting them directly.  Can’t you just do something nice to “balance it out”? Because your essentially wasting your life right now and it’s unproductive to everyone around you.”
That’s what he heard at least,
Although he may have been mistaken,
And now he was angry because people had completely ruined his rhyme AND his view of humanity.
What a bunch of *******!