Pip
Permanently imprisoned, Peter
The generation aren’t suffering anxiety
They are trapped as Peter Pan
With the ever increasing house prices, the lack of good jobs, the inability to form relationships.
We left our kids stuck, never able to grow up, so they rot, became more unfulfilled.
Imprisoned as a child.

Lack of hope, regression into computer games,
Fake achievement, never seeing a friend.
Trapped at mom and daddy's, enjoying a house price rise and a pension.
Knowing on an Asda salary their best hope of owning a house
Is to mortgage themselves to the point coffee is too much.
A holiday a dream, travel done after uni, not later.
And retirement at 75, ready for a care home.

Odd winner getting graduate jobs and escaping as Wendy birds.
If that was your life, wouldn’t you be depressed?
Score.
On PIP.

They finally get a house — mom and dad die, if they avoid a care home.
The American dream at 65 — homeowners, no hard work.
But not killing yourself before mom and dad
With ****, drink, or a rope.
Even a car, boy to see his friends — with insurance is too much to ask unless mom and dad help.
Three years at university — that being out on license.

Mom and dad need a care home, it will all be taken away.
Ironically being orphaned at 40 is winning.
Take another spliff, try to not look forward.
You will lose your PIP, have your last bit of freedom taken.

Oliver's son is still asleep on the sofa.

The only way to get a house
Is to get a baby when you’re not ready.
Hope the state gives you one.
Enjoy the poetry.
This generation doesn’t have Charles Dickens.
The beauty being made into delicate snowflakes,
To be crushed under Jackboots of a failed system.

Only the old work-from-home people don’t have to worry about the snow.
You don’t get a waterproof house as you walk to work.
Child unable to build even a snowman, let alone a life,
While mom can’t see beauty in a snowflake.
From their house, tax you to pay for their pension.
To envy mom's frozen tears, leaving no trail to tell of the suffering.

Of course PIP is gone.
Your low wage is the old greatness gift.
If you get a snow shovel, food, you might make your own path.
But I’ve Deliveroo food.
I don’t want to go out there in my boots.
I will catch a cold or COVID.
It’s number 9.
Close the gate behind you.

You step off the path — 3 stars.
Think about that.
I enjoy my meal.
Don’t ask for more.
Oliver sings and dances on West End now.
No dancing in my conscience for you asking for more, sir.

Bing bing — one delivery of gruel.
Get walking.
Time for sale.
Don’t eat my gruel.
Better be warm and delivered with a smile.
A second 3 star — you are on the sofa.
Hope mom got nice house.

Good news — it’s Oliver’s house.
Wasn’t he fortunate to inherit so much.
Now Charles wears a crown,
Doesn’t use a weapon of pen and ink.

No how dare u ask me for more
I lost my free tv license I will have u know
God snowflakes how much is the wagu today
Not frozen wagu I don’t like to defrost
How was job search son ? Find anything?
Well you’re only young me at 36

My body is a locked display

In a museum no one walks through.

Glass walls, warnings not to touch—

No map, no key, no clue.

My voice is a candle in a wind tunnel,
Flickering, fighting to stay lit.

Even when I bleed in metaphors,

They call it "just teenage ****."

I don’t wear scars like stories,

I hide them like shameful art—

Little tally marks of silence

Etched deep into my skin and heart.

I’m not broken—I’m unfinished.

A sketch left out in the rain.

Dripping lines and missing pieces,

A name forgotten, a frame of pain.

No mother here—just a woman

Who counts my failures with her eyes.
Sharp tongue, cold hands, fake smiles,
Every “what’s wrong with you?” a knife.

My dad?
He's a ghost with a phone.

Scrolls past birthdays like spam.

He only shows up in my nightmares,

And even there, he never gives a ****.

I eat dinner with silence.

Sleep under a roof but not a home.

The walls here echo insults,

And still I face it all alone.

I laugh in the right places,

Say “I’m just tired”like a chant.

But my wrists hum when the house goes quiet,

And I dream of “no more” when I can’t.

No one checks the corners

Where I fold myself at night.

They just praise me for being quiet,

For staying out of sight.

I don’t cry—I leak slowly,

Like a pipe left to rust and split.

This isn’t sadness, it’s erosion.

And I’m disappearing bit by bit.

it’s never easy
to lose someone
close to you.

it’s never easy
to say goodbye.

broken hearts
can mend,
but there’s a
hole inside—

a place
where your love
used to live.

you feel
like a part
of you
is missing.

you search
for light
at the end
of the tunnel,

but tunnel vision
keeps you stuck,
and still
you try
to rise above it.

losing someone
so close
hurts deeper
than words allow.

and you feel
you’ve been
down on your luck
since the start
of may.

it’s never easy,
and there’s no
easy way
to say this—

but i want
you to know:

it’s okay
to grieve.
it’s okay
to hurt.

because getting
over it
is never easy.

it takes
a strong heart
to heal,

and a stronger soul
to rise again—
to start over,
and live.