Take a break, because life is long
But nothing’s as bad as it seems,
When the reality around you’s all gone wrong
And the night just brings bad dreams.

As endless as life seems to be
Know nothing lasts forever
If not for you, there’d be no me
When my tomorrows turn to never

I don’t care who you are to me
If we’re strangers or we’re friends
My love’s for all humanity
And tomorrow never ends…

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.

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.

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.

Breeze flowing gently;
The waterfall cascades down;
I feel at peace here.

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.

I may be slightly merry
Or even pretty ******
You might even say I'm wellied
(I'm sure you get the jist!)
And I may now talk like thish-ish
And be completely off my ****
But I'll wish you a  merry Christmas
Because I love you guys to bits.

No.
No it is not.
Never do that.

Imagination seems to be
A way to escape reality,
But sometimes- when we're done escaping-
We create the dreams our minds were making

Perhaps I am an evil man,
Perhaps I am; I cannot tell;
I try to do the best I can,
But know I do not do it well.

Perhaps there is a space for me
In some unknown corner of hell,
Where hope reigns for eternity,
And nothing ever breaks its spell.

For hope is, when all's said and done,
The worst of things a man can suffer;
It keeps us traipsing, one by one,
From one disaster to another.

Perhaps it's best to just give up;
Immerse myself in a life of sin,
Drink good wine, and raise a cup
To my worst enemy- Nigel Finn.

I had a dream last night
Where all the flowers in the prison yard
Had turned full bloom
The reflections from them turned walls bright
'Till I awoke to the cold, hard
Reality of my room

The small magic book that tells
The voices what to say to me
When we're alone
Can't conjure up the words for smells
Nor the sad, sweet beauty
Of missing home

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.

Facta non verba is what we need,
Verba non facta is all that's received,
If you want to be a part of what is achieved,
Put away your kind words and help spread some good deeds.

You call me broken, not knowing
That my hopelessness stems
From watching you lie to yourself
Over and over again.

What causes my suffering is
Having caught a glimpse of what is real,
And you, not understanding,
Trying to change the way I feel.

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.

Don't remember me for what I ain't
When death decides to still my aching heart;
Don't picture me as if I were a saint,
Or treat me diff'rently when I depart.

Recall the good, but don't forget the bad,
And remember that you loved me all the same;
Remember that I sometimes drove you mad,
Or that –sometimes– I was the one to blame.

Don't make me out to be some perfect person,
What never made an error, great or small,
Or else you'll be rememberin' a version
Of me that never existed at all.

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.

I find myself, sometimes, drifting off
Into vast seas of imagination,
Until somebody lets out a cough,
And destroys all of my creation.

I wonder if the same thing applies,
In terms of our reality;
If we're just the dreams, and hopes, and lies,
Of some cosmic entity.

And if we found out that that's true,
Would it really change a thing?
If what's true for me is not for you,
Is there nothing I can bring

To your fake life, and also mine,
That serves a higher purpose?
Perhaps our meaning's still divine,
Although it may seem worthless.

Imagine you are in a play,
Whose audience numbers one,
And you helped brighten up their day,
And shaped what they'd become.

Would it really seem like nothing?
Is that really not enough?
To know the joy that you could bring,
In a life that's often tough?

So I don't care if they're true or not;
All the memories we share.
I'm happy now with what I've got;
The capacity to care.

Whenever I cry, a part of me rejoices;
A fragment which knows that to feel,
Keeps me grounded, makes things real,
And loves all my inner voices.

When I cry it is openly and proudly,
Though not in search for sympathy,
Or in hopes someone will comfort me,
And certainly never loudly.

When I cry it is for me, and me alone,
I have lost the gift of weeping once before,
And- having missed it- know that there is more,
To grieve once it has gone.

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."

If there were no edge,
Would you follow me in-
To oblivion?

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.

Proprioception
Is the perception
Of your hand when it is out of view.
My proprioception
Is tuned to perfection
And I hope that the same's true for you!

Although I can't see
My hand behind me
I can give all my fingers a wiggle;
It may not seem much
Very different to touch,
But with touch someone lets out a giggle!

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

Ten words are not enough
To explain life is tough

Let's not talk about the world today,
Switch off the news.
Ignore what other people say,
Just sit with me right here and stay,
To sing the blues.

Let's not talk about the world today,
It's tragic state.
Some countrys oh, so awful plight,
The people there who love to fight,
And love to hate

Let's not talk about the world today,
The way it be.
Don't listen to the news at ten,
Or the war reporters pen,
Just stay with me,
And let's not talk about the world...

"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.

"How am I feeling?- I think I'm fine,
Or at least not as bad as before
I think that I'm having a wonderful time,
Although I really can't be sure.

If I tell somebody I'm feeling OK
They smile and say; "Is that so?
What's made you feel better today?"
And I mumble; "I don't know."

It makes me question what I say,
And confuses me more and more.
I think that I'm having a wonderful day
Though I really can't be sure.

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 just had a thought in my head-
"The art of the sonnet's not dead!
And to prove that it's true
I'll write one for you!"
...But then I wrote a limerick instead.

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

I'd like to ask a question; what's your favourite quote?
Is it from a famous book, or is it something that you wrote?
Are they words from a close friend, or a speech by JFK?
My words have all dried up- can I have some of yours today?

It doesn't matter who said what, or if I'll understand
Why such words are important, if they're witty, humble, grand,
Or fill you up with hope when you're starting to feel low.
Perhaps I'll steal some inspiration, so please share- I'd love to know!
(I'm serious- leave your favourites in the comments box below.)

This scrap piece of paper
Could have been a plane
But, instead, it's a poem by me;
Not burnt into vapour,
Folded like a crane,
Or anything else it could be.

This scrap piece of paper,
Now scrap more than ever,
Because I have added these words,
Which now start to taper,
Because I'm not clever
Enough to write of paper birds.

This scrap piece of paper
Has no more left to give
Apart from the next three forced lines;
It won't save the tapir,
Teach you how you should live,
Or help you pay old parking fines.

Write a poem, you say,
And give me a subject
About that which you think I should write,
But it don’t work that way,
I’m afraid I must reject
The challenge you set me tonight

For a poem, you see,
Simply cannot be forced,
I can't pluck one out of thin air!
It needs to just be,
And run its due course,
And the writer, of course, needs to care

It’s not that I can’t write,
It’s not that I won’t,
It’s just that these things simply are,
And it seems that tonight
The mood simply don’t
Inspire to take me that far

I can't just decide
When the moment will take me,
And jot down a stanza or two.
I’m not trying to hide,
But you can’t simply make me
Write poems to benefit you.

So that’s why this piece
May not quite be art,
And won’t be remembered in books.
I can’t choose to please
(Wouldn’t know where to start)
You with how my poetry looks.

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?

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.

With pen in hand, I start to write
Whatever I am feeling,
But what I feel is utter *****;
I'm tired of self-healing.

But, pen in hand, I start to write,
With the hope something will change;
Letting it out may make things right,
Or a little less **** strange.

So, pen in hand, I start to write,
And perhaps it helps a bit.
Maybe tomorrow, or tonight,
I won't feel like total ****.

And, with pen in hand, I start to write
Of hate, and pain, and sorrow,
With the hopes that it may just might
Make life better tomorrow.

Now, with pen in hand, I start to write,
And I don't feel quite as bad,
So perhaps this life is worth the fight,
Even though it drives me mad.

With pen in hand, I start to write
Whatever I am feeling,
And what I felt was utter *****
That needed this self-healing.

Happy birthday; now you're older,
And (since I am growing bolder)
May I ask you include me,
In your will financially?
Or (if your death is premature)
I'd like to ask that you be sure
To at least spend your money well;
Party hard, and raise some hell!
Now granted– I won't wish you ill,
Regardless of what's in your will,
But if the lord your soul doth take,
Can I still have some birthday cake?

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.

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.

The Big Poetry Collection

https://www.facebook.com/groups/661273472100151/?ref=share

There's a man who will not talk today
He's afraid to show his weakness.
He thinks no-one will understand
That his life is pain and bleakness.

All his life he's displayed strength
And he will not stop that now,
So he researched the noose's length
And the when, and where, and how.

He will not know the pain he's caused,
But it's what he feels himself;
The feeling of sheer helplessness
That destroys our mental health.

He thinks, in time, our wounds will heal
Or that, perhaps, we will not care
And that we'd all be better off
Without his presence there.

But in the last message he ever wrote,
Which caused us all to worry,
He acknowledged our own weakness with
The tender words; "I'm sorry".

Talking about our feelings
Can benefit our mental health
And, with that in mind, I'd like to say;
Anxiety can **** itself.

It sneaks up like a ninja;
It knows the art of stealth,
But I have to teach it new things;
Like how to go and **** itself.

It bothers me with social stuff,
It screams about my wealth,
Until I can simply take no more,
And scream right back; "Go **** yourself!"

It's a nasty little demon!
It's a horrid little elf!
It's the thing I hate the most,
And it needs to go and **** itself.

Yes- talking about our feelings
Can benefit our mental health,
And, with that in mind, I'd like to say;
"Anxiety can **** itself!"

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!”

I wrote a poem, just for you,
Wrought out of pain and tears.
You took the pain, and wrote one too;
It multiplied our fears.

I wrote a poem, filled with joy,
And gave you that as well.
You wrote one too, and helped destroy
Our paranoia's spell.

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.)

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...

"There's a time and a place" the gravedigger said,
"For humour, and this isn't it."
But the thought process currently stuck in my head
Is: "Maybe it is. Just a bit."

The businessmen said, in no uncertain tones,
That my silliness simply won't do,
And quickly went back to their laptops and phones,
But I still think the opposite's true.

There's no harm at all in increasing the stock
Of the cheerfulness in this cruel world,
And, often, my humour has been like a rock
While the pain inside me has unfurled.

I cannot explain why, when I start to cry,
That, sometimes, I laugh while I do.
In the depths of despair, where men want to die:
I can see the ridiculousness too.

So if I should be sad, and you see me laugh,
Just know I'm still dying inside,
And that I simply have to follow this path,
Or tears will flow out in a tide.