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.

"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.

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.

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...

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.

There's certain people in this world
Who try to make your soul a mess,
And watch as hearts become unfurled
In tragic states of loneliness.

Perhaps it is they do not care;
Perhaps they mean it, more or less.
Perhaps they think it's only fair
That others will feel loneliness.

Perhaps, but on the other hand,
I do not wish it on another,
And I will do all that I can
To make you feel like you're my brother.

The light may seem it's dimming down
But through it all I must confess
That I must also bear that crown,
And be consumed by loneliness.

Because of people in this world
Who want to see my soul a mess,
And watch as my heart is unfurled
In tragic states of loneliness.

There's certain people in this world
Who try to make your soul a mess,
And watch as hearts become unfurled
In tragic states of loneliness.

Perhaps it is they do not care;
Perhaps they mean it, more or less.
Perhaps they think it's only fair
That others will feel loneliness.

Perhaps, but on the other hand,
I do not wish it on another,
And I will do all that I can
To make you feel like you're my brother.

The light may seem it's dimming down
But through it all I must confess
That I must also bear that crown,
And be consumed by loneliness.

Because of people in this world
Who want to see my soul a mess,
And watch as my heart is unfurled
In tragic states of loneliness.

The loneliness settles in
Like a blanket,
Gently obscuring all it touches,

Covering entire swathes
Of woulds and coulds,
Leaving only silhouettes

Of what might have been,
That slowly collapse
Under their own weight.

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?

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!”

Sometimes I wonder if I
Have forsaken my words
For the sake of a rhyme.
If it so happens that my
Mixture of nouns and verbs
Don't keep in pleasant time
Anymore, then I only
Have myself to blame
(I hope you'll forgive me),
But I hope that you'll see
Something that feels the same
Between the words that should be
Written ten feet high in burning light
And, lest there should be any doubt,
Written over and over again
As if caught between madness and delight,
And a need to find an escape out
From her name, her name, her name, her name

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.

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…

Love Yourself

Love yourself, before it becomes too late,
And you miss the "you" you currently hate.

Love yourself before your senses are dulled,
And your current self becomes annulled.

Love yourself, before you hit that wall,
Where you cannot do it, after all.

Love yourself, before it fades away,
And you cannot face another day.

Love yourself, more than they love you,
For everything you say and do.

Love yourself; nobody else can
Help you become a better man.

So love yourself. before it ends.
Don't just rely on love from friends.

Love yourself, because someday
You'll love the old you anyway.

Love yourself, because if not
You may lose everything you've got.

Love yourself, even when it's tough,
And know that self-love is enough.

Love yourself, to see you through it.
Because I won't always be here to do it.

So love yourself.

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.

Is not equivalent to a broken leg.
Who came up with that analogy?
Someone who hasn't experienced either
Seems the only probability.

It's far more akin to a giant spasm,
Contorting your leg against your will,
And stopping it seems highly unatural,
And each doctor prescribes different pills.

Nobody has fluctuating broken legs,
Or fractured limbs that cause them to count
The precise number of steps they take,
And despair if it's the wrong amount,

Or healing bones that turn reality
Into hallucinatory nightmares,
Or make you stay awake all week,
And start berating chairs.

But the worst of that analogy
(It drives me quite insane!),
Is that broken legs are quick to heal,
And cause a lot less pain.

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.

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.

"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.

Today has been hard;
There are bills to pay, and chores to do,
But I know when they're sorted through
I will still love you tomorrow.

This week has been difficult;
So much still remains undone,
And despite not having time for fun
I will still love you tomorrow.

The month has been taxing;
But there hasn't been a single day,
Where I haven't found the time to say
I will still love you tomorrow.

My life seems awful;
A constant, endless, pointless fight,
But one thing gets me through the night
*I will still love you tomorrow.

If I told you about the fifty mile trek I took,
with ice accumulating on my beard,
and shivering to sleep in the tiny hollow,
would you believe me?

What about the time they thought I was a terrorist
trying to assassinate the queen?
Or the time they took everything away from me;
my clothes, my hair, even my name?
Would you read it as fiction?

"That kind of thing doesn't really happen" you might say,
and I no longer care to argue my case anymore.
as you explain to me how, in a modern day society,
these kind of things things really work.

I wonder whether I should care,
as I nod dumbly to your every point,
telling me why you know, definitively,
that I am lying.

This is why my poetry shall refer only to emotions.
Nobody reads emotion as fiction;
you can feel it as they tug at your own-
A broken heart, a smile, a stray giggle.

Whether I made that journey is no business but my own,
but the cold I can describe perfectly;
Not biting, but stinging, and numb in every other sense.
The fear giving way to tears, which froze on my cheeks.

Besides, if this really is fiction, if I had really
made all of it up inside of my head,
would I still lie to you?
Of course I would.

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.

Ten words are not enough
To explain life is tough

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."

People like you and me have grown used to dancing along,
To the raggedy tune of someone else's song.
We are able to dance, and smile, and duck, and roll, and weave,
While still clinging tightly to the things that we believe.
Sometimes we are led to believe we will lose it all; our heart, our soul, our very name,
Afraid they'll take away the us-ness of us; but still we play their game.

I wonder how many others know how to fake their hand?
Who keep the love caged up inside, to appear "normal" and bland?
Perhaps it is just us, perhaps just you, or, again, perhaps just me,
Or perhaps each individual just sees what they want to see.

Perhaps.

Perhaps...

Or perhaps, but...

I had a vision once; all the bad thoughts in the world were mine;
I ****** them in from everyone else, so that all the world felt fine,
And while all other folk were safe at rest, I cried and cried and cried,
And toddled down some empty street, slumped down a wall, and died,
Taking with me all the evil thoughts- the hate, the pain, the strife;
I believe it was the happiest I'd felt in all my life.

I tell you that to tell you this; all people's pain is pain to me,
And I would gladly give you happiness, in exchange for misery.
Don't keep those thoughts locked up inside, and hoard them for your own,
Or both you and I will surely die depressed- afraid- alone.

This is not a poem,
                  Nor a song,
        Or even a piece of writing.
                                    
These are not
                         Even words
           That I am
Using.

For you to think otherwise implies a degree of madness
That I, the rational part of your mind,

                                                          ­      Cannot
                                                 Possibly
                                                        ­Comprehend.


                           I          am          only        here       to      say;

                                                  C­OME BACK!!!

                                                 We're missing you
                                                       My friend.

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!

I died yesterday, by my own hand,
And now here I am;
Standing like a ******* idiot in my kitchen,
And craving cornflakes.

The reasons why I did it seem hazy now;
All the buttoning and unbuttoning seemed to much,
Or else a love had left me,
And now I can't even grasp a bowl.
Stupid! That's what it is! Pure stupidity!
And I just want some ****** Crunchy Nut!

The bathrooms off-limits now;
It just makes me angry to see myself lying there,
No longer able to help anyone, least of all myself,
And that body didn't seem to care
About my cereal lust.

So here I am; staring at the cupboard,
But unable to open it,
and I don't even know if there's
any cereal left in the ****** thing anyway.
All those stupid myths about ghosts walking
Through walls was wrong apparently;
I'm just slowly fading away.

So here I am; craving cereal like a spoon.
The stupid spoon that I'm unable to grasp;
That seems to chortle, facelessly, at my attempts.
And being forever angry at that
Stupid idiot in the bathroom
For whom I feel nothing but contempt.

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!

I haven't wrote in quite a while,
So I thought I'd make this song,
But it's possible I've lost my style,
And my rhyme schemes gone all wrong.

The cadence is no longer there,
And the melody's gone flat;
Iambic's left without a care,
And this poem's turned to tat.

But perhaps it doesn't matter
Just as long as I have fun;
Though my words may clunk and clatter,
I'll be happy when I'm done.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Words are harmless, so they say,
That's where the problem starts;
Sticks and stones
May break our bones
But words will break our hearts.



Words are harmless, so they say,
And point you to their charts;
It's harmless fun,
No damage done.
But... Who will mend our hearts?



The x-rays show no damage
Where words have scathed across,
But it still feels hard to manage,
And leaves you at a loss.



Words are harmless, don't complain,
That's where the problem starts.
It's quite absurd-
A single word-
Enough to break our hearts!



But words are harmless, they maintain;
The subject of their parts,
No less or more,
So let them pour
From all our broken hearts

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...

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.

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!

"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?

And I can control my feelings better now.
The shakes are still there of course-
General anxiety is another problem to deal with,
But, since it's winter,
I can pass it off as just being cold
When the small child holds my hand
And asks me "why are you doing that?"

The drugs are working,
And I can feel myself getting calmer by the day.
The things that bother me don't so much anymore,
And the medication flows through my bloodstream
And into my brain, slowly changing it's
Chemical make-up, and helping me become
A better person.

The drugs are working,
And this is my first attempt at a poem in months.
There's no rhyme or structure anymore,
And it's lacking a certain something that you're used to-
The metre is non-existent, and everything has
Descended into free verse.

The drugs are working,
And I can't help but wonder if that's a good thing or not-
Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is the case that I have simply forgot
The unbearable pain from which my poetry was born,
But still I miss it- those ups and downs which made me... me
And now, as I stare blindly at some old withered tree
I forget what poetry lies within, and only feel forlorn.

The drugs are working,
The old feelings have gone away
And, with them, a part of my soul,
Which could not stay another day,
In this unpoetic hole.

But the drugs are working...

No more poems, thank you;
I think that I'm done.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

Please turn off the music;
My songs are all sung.
I think the night's over,
Although it's still young.

No more words, I beg you;
Just slice off my tongue!
They're just wasted air,
From a withering lung.

I've no more left to say;
Time to blot out the sun.
My notebook's half empty,
And apathy's won.

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.

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...

There's a storm in my teacup,
An ache in my head,
A plethora of words,
That are better unsaid.

There's a monster inside me,
That never stops speaking,
Though I try to control,
The havoc it's seeking.

You think I'm a good person,
But I do not agree,
My friend: you only judge me,
Based on what you can see.

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."

The Same Table

We are all sitting
At the same table.
Some of us have more food,
                               more guns,
                               more oil,
                               more everything.
Some of us will laugh more,
                     will cry more,
                     will sigh more,
                     will feel more.
Some of us will die young,
                      will die old,
                      will die willingly,
                      will never live properly at all.
Some of us wear red,
                     wear blue,
                     wear black,
                     wear all the colours of the rainbow,
Some of us have light skin,
                     have dark skin,
                     have smooth skin
                     have scars criss-crossing our bodies,
But none of us
Sit high enough
          To look down
     On anyone.

These are the hands that will guide you to greatness,
These are the hands that will stay through the years,
These are the hands that will celebrate good times,
And these are the hands that will wipe away tears.

These are the hands that will love you forever;
When you are weak they will help you feel strong,
And, right now, since these hands are entwined together
These hands are precisely where they belong

"Do me a favour" you say, and so I do
But then one favour turns into two,
And two favours turns into three,
Until there isn't time for me.

"Do me a favour" I say, but you decline.
You say you simply have no time,
To return the favour that I gave,
"Do it yourself; I'm not your slave"

Doing a favour, with none returned
Should feel like nothing's being earned,
But only if you do not see,
I do them not for you, but me.

"Do me a favour" and, once again, I do,
And when one favour turns into two,
And you don't return a single one,
I'm laughing to myself; I've won!

You know those people who tell you to "think more positively"? I'm sure you do- they're everywhere. Dispensing that useless piece of advice as if shutting your eyes to the reality around you leads to some sort of divine cosmic knowledge. **** those people!

Now I'm not saying there ISN'T anything to be positive about in bad situations. Most clouds DO have a silver lining. I'm one of those people who tends to laugh when injured, for example. Mostly because I visualise how funny it would be to laugh in that situation, and also because it takes away some of the pain. A mentally ill patient suddenly, and without warning, punched me in the face once (he explained later, over a game of chess, that he thought I was reading his mind. I replied that, if I had been reading his mind, I would have ducked), causing blood to stream from my nose, and me to erupt in raucous mirth-noises. It freaked the poor guy out so much that he ran away. Positive thinking definitely has it's benefits.

What I'm referring to is those people who, when your already feeling low, will use the actual phrase "think more positively", or send you stupidly cheerful messages, or try to distract you with happy stories, as if being depressed suddenly drops your intellect and attention span to that of a 3-year old child who's dropped an ice-cream, and by waving a shiny new toy in your face, you'll suddenly become distracted and within five minutes forget all about everything else- No. Stop treating me like I'm a ******* idiot.

Being depressed isn't a sign of having a broken mind, it's the sign of having a mind that's working differently. If we're going to classify all minds that work differently, or even just the ones we don't agree with, as being "broken" then we may as well just lobotomise everyone now and be done with it.

To put it in perspective- I've been waking up almost every morning for the past seven years feeling awful. Some days are worse than others, some days it's not as bad, and sometimes they last throughout the whole day as has been a more regular occurrence over the past three years since first moving to Bristol and confirming that life is, indeed, ****. Whilst there I dabbled in experimenting with psychedelics a fair bit, and one of the most common questions posed to me in the morning-after periods, when everyone was on a comedown, was "How can you still be so happy?".

Now, the real answer was one that I was always reluctant to say, because at those points I was surrounded by people who had also taken drugs the night before, and were now prone to emotional outbursts and hysteric behaviour, so I knew it was probably best just to leave them to their own devices whilst they expressed extreme anger or sadness over not being able to remember where they left their third most favourite pair of socks, or whatever.

Here's the answer now though- I'm not happy. I was never happy in the first place. I wake up every morning feeling something akin to this, I have done for years, and it doesn't really get much worse for me. The lack of energy and motivation, the feeling that no-one cares, the thoughts that tell me I'm useless and not as good as anyone else. They're new for you, but to me this is just a regular day. The only difference being that for me to encourage "positive thinking" at this point makes me fair game for some backlash, from the very people who use such phrases on me. I would find I had suddenly reversed roles. For a while I decided that I should use their own advice on them, because what advice, I reasoned, was more comforting and useful than our own. No such luck I'm afraid- and I now find myself accused of being uncaring, and misunderstanding of the problem. At this point am I not the normal one? No-one else seems to be able to deal with the basic, simple, foreseeable and expected problems presented to them, no-one else seems to have any level of control over their emotions apart from me. Am I not doing everything expected of me while everyone else "just gives up"? My thoughts are, once again, used as evidence against me, and I am designated as not being normal, of being strange, of not operating how a real person should.

At such points I have often wondered if I am viewing people as they must have once viewed me, before they trained me to accept the world as it is. "Why are you acting this way!?" I have often wanted often wanted to shout, "There's nothing wrong with you! It's all in your mind!". Alas, I know the hopelessness in such endeavours. I recognise the futility of using their own reason against them; they will not understand, and, even if they do, they will not listen. My only option is to go along with it, to be there for them should they need, or want, me for something, and wait for the next bad day to hit myself whereupon someone will undoubtedly try to make me "think more positively" about the situation.

To sum up; I am not happy. I have long since given up on the concept of being so. Some people will view this as a sad state of affairs, but I would argue against that; There is nothing sad about the predicament. I may not be happy, but I can be cheerful- a happy person is one who has no cares, whereas a cheerful person is one who has cares, but has learnt how to deal with them. I have no wish to appease anyone who would have me trek along the soul-destroying path back towards some unattainable happiness. I'd much rather be cheerful, thank you very much, so you can take your positivity and shove it where the sun doesn't shine, and- while you're doing that- try to stay positive.

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...