I write with uninhibited passion,
Drawing inspiration from the depths of my wounded soul.
The scars etched upon my chest,
Like riverbeds carved by a relentless force,
Serve as a constant reminder of my struggles.
My heart races like a war drum,
Creating a rhythmic cadence that resonates through the pages,
And reaching the very eardrums of those who dare to read the scriptures.

I write with the grace of a healer,
Smoking sage and smudging against the ramparts of my own mind. In this act of purification,
I strive to cleanse the filth from the membrane of my thoughts, allowing them to flow cyclically like filtered air—
Clean, pure, and easy on the chest.
I take deeper breaths, allowing my spirit to soar.

However, when praise is bestowed upon my efforts,
And the inkwell dries, I become chary of their accolades.
To captivate you in awe, I must bleed upon the page,
Pouring my heart and soul into every word.

So many more blue eyes in the world
Scrolling through their rolodex
Consuming dopamine one thumb up at a time
The slang is commonplace, replacing native tongues
The hair is the same on every dumb limbering drone
Conversations sound like e-speak read aloud in an open mic
Except that the audience participates in every false interaction
As plastic as the shoreline after spring break.

Thoughts are collective in a hive mind
Crowdsourced down to their brow line
Manufactured obedience in obediently serving for that last drip
Dopamine drips in the form of a click.

Awkward silence on the subway,
If it’s not on TikTok, they can’t say
Words shift into a balloon animal display
Twisted in knots, unable to hear clarity
But can walk the dog like a yo-yo trick if it bottled sincerity
Because these blue eyes are strained and strange
Locked into a perpetual gaze into the bottomless aether
Searching for the next fix.
Dopamine drips in the form of a click.

Cliques of cliches
And Temu personaliites
A carbon copy of a copy copying copies of something copied.
And the beat goes on like an arrhythmic heart
No worry for when the pressure rises
They’d rather have a stroke than see the OH in Cheerios
Because it’s not sweet enough to find the ordinary
When you can dine on lucky charms and chase rainbow fairies
See they’re stuck, them, and they, ze or zur -
Needing that dopamine drip from the clicks

And as I watch devolution
These zombies are tethered to their thought pollution
Parasitic in their dissolution
Walking these streets with their strings tugged by the beat of filters
I know I could never be a screen ****** apparatchik.

I’d cut you out
Toss you to the starving wolves
Let them pick apart your lumbering mass
But even under your mask
You’re insignificant at best.

Leave you to your own
Let you fester despite your growth
Because no matter what you do,
In eyes that stare back at you
In all that you stir and stew
With propaganda songs,
And protesting vigils;
Assembly halls full of sycophants.
When the lights go out,
You’re all alone.

No you see the truth is:

All that you are,
And could ever be,
Is benign.

No one mourns the wicked,
Not a single lachrymose face in the crowd,
No rainfall from the heavens,
No priest to eulogize or ask forgiveness.

Even the monotone wreaths seem brighter,
The sun shines proudly with its radiant warmth
There is no chill in the zephyrs,
Not even a murmur this morning,
They’re not even wearing black or a shawl.

No, no one mourns the wicked,
There is candor among the many,
Huddled ‘round the casket,
Casting their stones instead of roses
Take into the earth with fleeting retribution.

No one mourns the wicked -
As the ground trembles and trees shake
From the effusive cheers create percussion
A symphony of lost sympathy
As the tombstone reads.

“No one mourns the wicked”

It does not follow
that I am weak
or timid,
shy,
or small

Your logic’s amiss
I’m not swallowing this

It does not follow
that I am cracked
or broken,
rough,
or torn

It’s flawed generation
from any foundation

It does not follow
that I am less
or nether,
base,
or low

I don’t care where we were
-what you try to infer
I prefer
You’d concur
These are non sequitur


©2025

Light replaced by smoke
Further obscures the statue
that white candle-glowed

Hazy, pearl-grey proof
that mystic transcendence is
not light-limited

Not just the statue
or the end of soft verses
or the white candle

It was the timing
The clear-felt coincidence
of pause and darkness

Caught in airy confluence
Secular becomes divine

In beatific dappling
Beyond the broken light
A prism - one or multitudes
- create joy-magic scattering
As colours spill from white

The bliss-veiled happy vandals
Ice crystals, dusty mist,
or fresh-shed brick-metallic blood
Immune from birthright scandals
Guerilla-art eclipsed

What hidden mystic sorcery
This trigger transportation
Our daily glimpse at heaven hints
A blood and light-mixed chemistry
With dust-transmuted artistry
Charmed glimmer transformation

Colour-coded lists
with satisfying check marks
Tally for self-worth score
Free time is a dead wasteland
Work compulsion conquers all

Work is my saviour
Proof that I have use
Grateful for the gift
of structured daily toil

I don’t need a break
I am far too strong
I am made to stand
in any roaring storm

Endlessly on point
I cannot relax
Maybe I should take
a class in calming down

Another degree
Major in stillness
Minor in poems,
music, walks and gardens

What happens to me
While I do ‘leisure’?
What will I be worth
when I take time for me?

When days are rough at work, and heat is high
My self-esteem is carried by a role
To prove each working day that I am fine
And value comes from actions to assist
At frantic pace that slowly dents my soul

Beware when job and self strong-overlap
Identity is blank beyond my job
Then molehills swell to snowy mountain range
Allotments to sheep stations in my mind
And working day and night a sleeve-worn slog

Befogged in role, befuddled in self-worth
In muddled shame, obscured by guilt and fear
With added slow fatigue and hopelessness
And where do your needs end, and mine begin?
All rules of world and life become unclear

Learn to take time off
Negotiate with myself
New type of self-worth
Creative time, open field
Discovery nurtures all

Nightly whiskey flow
stains a white-walled childhood home
Parents seem blurry
Love and danger co-occur
Paroxysms of anger

In childhood there’s no room for shades of grey
It’s black or white, confusion sits unused
A place for everything and each in place
And I am in control and thus to blame
Come adulthood to show me I’m confused

So, consequences passed down like a gift
In genes and in behaviours left unchecked
To witness fights, hard falls, deep burns, and pain
The trauma transfer, second-hand ingrained
With love and anger, care and dark neglect

Then later roughly realise there was wrong
The blend of wrong and love is hard to hold
Most often see the child who fails at school
With low self-concept, guilt, hot shame, and fear
But all built strength and power left untold

Compensatory
change for homeostasis
Strong roles adopted
Scars deftly hidden
Chaos-order alchemy

I must be The Responsible One
Parentification at maximum pitch
A list-making, chore-running, stable-housemaster
A self-worth creator from jobs neatly done
All leisure-time wary and leadership-rich

I must be The Adjuster as well
Will follow directions and bounce from extremes
A dime-spinning, change-juggling, fresh puddle-jumper
Surprise and emergency make me excel
More calm at the edges than flat in-betweens

I must be The Calming Placater
Maintaining still waters whatever my price
A vigilant, change sensing, smoothing class helper
To people-please acts as a guilt-shame assuager
All pliable, social, and overly nice

Imperfect but strong
coping mechanisms forged
Power in order
Capable, dependable
Psyche shaped by survival