Transient summers,
Forbidden Bluebell fields,
Tough times symbolise the pouring of ales.


Manicured lawns,
Cider drinking Saturdays,
Routine discussions about the sun and rain.


Hijinx down the watering hole,
The great unwashed congregating on Market Day,
Smog penetrating the lungs,
Forlorn eyes, social decay.


Leaders of austerity,
Riddled with oppressive policies,
The tedious endurement of the morning commute.


Sirens cut across Westminster,
A quintessential rave anthem,
Boxing Day sales,
Sheer pandemonium.


Revelling in satire,
And curtain twitching,
Reading racists newspapers,
Disenfranchised youth.


Icky dance floors with raging hormones,
Breath heavy with hops and acrid tobacco.


**** drops and winding waists,
Ladies bathroom, evil eyes exchanged.


Sundays spent hanging,
And Mondays depressed,
Holy communions,
Cladded in your best dress.


Suppressed thoughts,
And baited breath
An Albion filled with oppression and dread.

let me tell you about great love — a love so big, it rattles your very existence to the core. it bestows you with euphoria beyond measure, an unending high others spend a lifetime seeking. it swallows you whole, all too consuming. if you’re lucky enough, it’s eternally yours. you get to hold on to the red string of fate that intertwines souls together.

yet for the ones whom the stars never seem to be in favor of, destiny decides to cut the ties you had built a home in. one minute all is well, and the next, your world crashes before you.

but no matter the circumstances, no matter how difficult it may be, it is your duty to thank whatever reigns above for allowing you to momentarily experience this great love — a love so bright, a love so powerful that it could never be yours to keep. it was too risky to flourish, too explosive to be contained, too thrilling to be tamed, and too **** great to merely be left in the shadows of your existence, while the whole world hopelessly gazes, eyes glimmering in hopes of getting a taste of what you once had, or whatever you lost.

this love may bid you farewell, but one thing remains certain. it can never take away the lessons and memories that you have been blessed with.

so you hold on. you hold on to whatever’s left, even if it feels like a fragment of your heart has been held in custody, with no consolation and chance of ever returning. because at the end of the day, we take pieces of people, and they of us, in order to form the right kind of love, the love that fits seamlessly like a puzzle — the type that is gentle and kind, and leaves no traces of doubt. this is the very love that kisses you in the morning and makes promises meant to be kept. and this time around, it is the love that lasts.

although there is a great love that may never compare, the right love stays.

I feel the subtle changes in the air
  and alter so I might align with you.
We glide with one another, taking care
  to match and mirror each and every move.
Life dances. Sudden motions counteract
  the pause, bringing balance to where we're bound.
Everywhere, in the tracing of our tracks,
  we had left beautiful trails to be found.
The carrier of great things in the mind,
  our wings are lifted by the warmth of love.
We are two old souls that have been assigned
  to soar like eagles circling high above,
have come together with the rising sun.
  Home is a journey that has just begun.

Silence is
the greatest language
and
solitude is
the greatest country

My father said, "Son, your poetry is technically proficient and you certainly have mastered style, but you just say the words outright. You don't hide the meaning behind guile."

He told me that poetry was for interpretation of the reader, I was just to merely guide feeling but it was up to the reader to have to think.

Well, Dad. I think I'll have to disagree.

For me, poetry was a way to confront my fears of failure. To say the words I couldn't speak. To handle the loss of friends and family. To cope with the things that make me weak.

I suppose what I'm saying, Father, is I think poetry can be a narrative, just like any prose. So I'll keep writing the way I do, and hopefully it'll be good enough for you.

And if I'm wrong, I won't be great. I will fade into the obscurity of eternity, but somehow that seems satisfactory to me.

Pain and expression whenever ink splatters,
I can feel the forked serpents in my belly
twisting and tendrilling into one.
In the air slowly seeping,
as black smoke from the
smouldering remains
of all the paper-thin trees
I killed with my handwritten poetry.
If I open my mouth to speak,
forked tongues will fly out
to kiss the descending flames
upon graveyard plains of doomed foliage.
On that fateful night from the bonfire,
monsters sprung free.