I know it was the right decision,
Because one doesn't make
painful decisions lightly,
But ever since,
I have never quite been able
To sleep as well,
As when I did with someone
Lying beside me.
Even though I am almost two metres tall
And my feet hang out at the best of times.

"New Year, new you" she said as she took off her old one and put on a brave new face. This one hid the bruises but not the tears in her eyes

Saoirse wanted motivation
Before the new year celebration.
I bid to write her a poem I'd parsed
But on her acceptance I couldn't be arsed

When I was younger in a different time
I had a habit on a special date,
Or on an occasion, to write a rhyme,
Often enough, because I'm a cheapskate.

So as Christmas swiftly soon descends,
And I've but my heart to claim as loot,
I write this story for a special friend
About a Giant and his Little Boots.

You see, these two made quite an awesome pair -
A lanky lad with lanky giant feet,
He'd often smile as people'd often stare
As he'd walk with Little Boots about the street.

A friendship in college they did form.
The Giant couldn't have asked for more.
His Little Boots could help weather a storm
Or bust a move on the Workman's floor.

Those Little Boots helped through thick and thin.
When he was in his darkest places,
They'd help him smile and let light back in
Or send him gifs or silly faces.

He knew they could take different paths -
Boots, like friends, can tread through the rough,
But nothing could silence the joy or laughs -
The friendship was made of stronger stuff.

And so they lived, as friends, forever,
The Giant and his Little Boots,
Strolling down life's roads together
Making it big time, in cahoots.

Life can sometimes get bitter-
It feels like there's no going back,
But if the knife ain't gonna slit her
She'll still take her coffee black

The wind and rain are battering your window, and all you can think about is your 13 year old self, and how the watermark was up to your neck

Eve's crime was not biting the apple, but accepting the idea that she was to blame for man's fall.

That, in my experience, was inevitable.

I'm feelin' inspired today o' alt'days - when George Bailey'st' richest man int'own, but I can't think of out worth writin' so I wrote this.

One often 'as problems sleepin'
In ways which affect ones 'ealth
But 'ow can one deal wit 'out but weepin'
When one 'as a fear of their self

If only we'd known
A dead child was what
The white people needed
To start to care and solve
The problems of the war-torn,
***** Third-World.
We could have drowned one
Years ago in a luxury
Bubble bath and saved all
The inconvenience of
Distracting us from
The Kardashians
And making us uncomfortable
And having to worry about
Whether they will
Take our jobs or
Become our neighbours
And then we would
Have to stumble over
The pronunciation of their
Very foreign names
And worry about their
Very foreign ways
And whether or not our
Train journeys to work
Would be targeted by ISIS,
Or, perhaps, our holiday
Flight to the Mediterranean,
With its simply darling little
Features that are just so
Intimate.
At least it would make a
Tragic story
To discuss over brunch
With the ladies of leisure
While they get off
On the intimate pleasure
Of donating old clothes
(Expensive ones mind you! -
The refugees won't know
They're born) to charity.
If only we'd known.
We'd have been able
To help ourselves sooner
Before it stopped being chic.

The water charges are coming.
Quickly, power-hose the path.
Check the water has stopped running.
Have your final bubble bath.

Don't forget to clean the cars.
Get the grime out of the gutters.
Let the bubbles fill the drains.
Wash the windows and the shutters.

Feed the plants and hide the hose.
It's strictly fruit juice from now on.
Make sure the ice machine goes,
And Billy's water gun is gone.

Turn on the TV, continue your day,
Pray that the Wi-Fi connection's the same.
Watching the news you'll stare in dismay:
An African child in an ad campaign -

"What a lucky ***!" You'll say,
"He's only been charged for his tears today."

When you are a young white boy
You learn that "God" loves everyone
And you should too because
Everybody matters.

Then, you find out by yourself that,
What they actually meant,
Was that "God" treats everyone equally -
Nobody matters.

We are all equally irrelevant.
Just vessels awaiting our white sheets.

Sometime later you learn that,
While nobody matters, it is the loudest
Voices that have the least to say -
Idiots clatter their saucepans during evening discussions.

So as the blue, white, and red shine brightly across the world
While the Eiffel Tower remains silenced by tragedy,
It is the deafening strains of the bandwagon we hear
Struggling to cope with its passengers,

While the repeated explosions of idiots
Continue to clatter their saucepans all over the world
And the Facebook ramblings and Twitter chirps
Of disillusioned folks who didn't ever
Learn that their toys don't matter.
That their race or gender or religion doesn't matter.

Nobody, myself included, seems to grasp
The concept that we are all irrelevant,

Nobody, except those awaiting
Identification and burial,
Those who are comforted
By candles, flowers, and white sheets,
Who are whispering in the wind
The same question that eludes us all:

"Why is the world full of hate and evil men?"

And maybe it is in the acceptance
Of a spiteful "God", the acceptance
Of a mean, angry, vengeful pig of a "God",
A "God" who hates... Or maybe
It is in the asking of that very question:

That whisper in the icy November wind
That burns your hands at football matches
Or sitting outside in restaurants,
That makes them matter a great deal.

He who says escapism cannot solve your problems
has never been a cinephile with depression
who can sit and watch The West Wing in his pants.

In times of clarity, or perhaps
Moments of weakness
(Depending on one's perspective)
My greatest fear, I think,
Is that of dying without achieving
Anything worthy of mention.

The idea of being so ordinary
That your death
(or rather, your life)
Will be rapidly evaporated
from the earth's memory
Like light rain on a molten tarmac afternoon.

But you, at least on a mentally strong day,
Delude yourself with bursts of creativity:
Poetry, film, ideas of grandeur,
All of which persuade you that either
You will not die for a long time,
Or you will someday soon achieve.

This thought is comforting
And all is well.

Until one day you are having
A particularly busy teaching day,
And you rush to the usual spot
To grab a regular taste of Dublin life,
And order your chicken fillet roll:
Lifeblood of an Irish working-man's lunch,
And you eat while you walk -
Both briskly to save time before
Rejoining the rich children.

And the slobbering mouthful of
Delightful chicken baguette
Casts taco sauce from its grasp,
And dribbles down your pubey beard.

You stop and take a finger to it,
Knowing full well that the damage is
Done and that those hairs will grip
To the smell of taco sauce until
The drain tastes their defeat after
A particularly overzealous shower.

And it is in that moment,
With finger and beard stained with
The orange-tinged blood of a chicken fillet roll,
That your ordinariness and worthlessness become apparent
And it destroys you...
Because you always thought taco sauce was spicy.

If I had to drown one thousand deaths
And sink beneath a quarry
I'd still want to spend all those one thousand breaths
Telling you I'm sorry

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back to yesterday.
To feel the pain I felt again -
A price I deserve to pay.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back two weeks,
To before you found out any of this,
To before my love-drunk speech.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back two months ago.
If I could erase the mistakes I made
I'd erase them for you now.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back a year,
Before we'd even become good friends,
So you'd never shed a tear.

If I could travel back in time
I'd travel back to '92,
And **** my new-born infant self,
And make the world a treat for you...

Her eyes said "yes" when they first met mine
Her smile said "I want to know more"
Her laugh said "this guy seems quite nice.
Who knows what the night has in store?"

My mouth said "Jesus, I'm being a bore"
My heart felt recurring themes
She walked away, and into the night
As my brain said "just in your dreams"

There are some days
When one fatal heart-wrenching
Rejection can cascade into a torrent
Of gut-punching, sick-inducing barrages of failure.
One rejection after another for one long week
Of un...something misery.

The first, well, I saw it coming.
There was a heavy inevitability about it in the air
Like the thick sweat before a summer storm.
Yet, despite this, almost foreknowledge,
My heart still lies in shattered pieces,
My head awash with regret, self-loathing,
And a deep inexplicable sadness.
Swiss chocolate - she was meaningless,
Surely soon forgettable,
But in that moment ever so sweet...
And the sight of her would brighten up my day.

The second was a reminder of my "situation" -
That constant battle between our demons and our angels,
The latter of whom have mostly hung themselves by this stage,
Or drowned themselves in vats of ciders,
Awaiting judgement or an epiphany.
Maybe they were waiting for a train,
And the demons simply gave a firm push,
Or whispered sweet infinities into your ears
As they bristled against the breeze atop a tall building.

The third was another, somewhat self-inflicted, destruction.
Less a rejection, and more an ultimatum:
"Sort your ******* life out Thomas
Because you're ruining hers tall, dark, and handsomely."
- That's not what she said, but it stung,
More or less, with the same venom,
Whilst maintaining that same tinge of flirtatious tone.
Somehow I stumbled into this mess without malicious intent -
Just a stupid little boy with a box of matches,
And a canister of petrol, and a blissful unawareness
Of the inevitable inferno.
Undoubtedly, the demons are laughing
At all the tears that will surely come.

The fourth was particularly unfortunate.
In classic "Thomas" style my first thoughts were to hit restart.
I wonder if all Thomas' are arseholes?
I mean obviously Edison was, and no doubt
There was malice behind Thomas the Tank Engine's smug grin,
But I wonder if it is a scientific certainty, or just dumb luck?
Needless to say I packed my bags in my head
And applied for the trabajo.
New start. New beginning. Old cliché.
And inevitable rejection -
One I didn't see due to my
Rebounded energy to avoid failure.
The repetitive nature of life's cycle is somewhat nauseating.
What kind of sadist designed this ride?
I wonder if his name was Thomas too?
Ah well, I've nothing better to do. "Another go, please."

For it was in that one moment, suspended from fleeting, if only for that very specific moment, that nothing else mattered. And it was perfec

Poems are sometimes a lovely way to clear ones head and feel the beating of your heart and the cogs turning in your brain. Even short poems.

If one hundred and forty characters were all that's left to send help and save the world, I probably shouldn't have spent them writing this.

Friends are a wonder. Never in all my dreams could I imagine such souls that could save me from myself. That could make me feel so alive...

She adored cinema and took it all in. Now she is blind and touches the screen, constructing the images in her head, weeping at their beauty.

To create poetry or flash fiction in one hundred and forty characters. What a truly modern art form. Composing, like a symphony, my laziness

A text that demands an answer
And thought.
I see your loving smile,
And that overwhelming friendliness
That you bestow on everyone.
I see that you are one hundred percent crazy
Yet so smart and sensible,
And I love how you can balance them both so well.
I see that you are one of the most fun people I know
And funniest – a day doesn’t pass
Without you making me laugh.
I see that you make me feel warm
(And you know I get cold very easily.)
I see the first time we met:
How I laughed at you for sounding American.
How I felt like I’d known you forever
And had enjoyed every second.
How you didn’t know me
Yet offered me cake.
How could I not fall head over heels?
I see how you always play with your hair
(And was secretly mesmerised by it in every class
Long before I had the courage to kiss you.)
I see how we have so much in common.
I see how you make me feel:
Like I’ve just been hit
By a cooling breeze on a hot summers day.
But if you needed another reason –
If you fail to believe all that was said before
I give you my all and proclaim:
I love your glorious, adorable, wonderfully unique laugh
And I love that you hate that I love it.

I wake up next to you
And feel the best that I can feel.
You’ll object, but it’s true.
You make me feel that extra bit alive.

Staring deeply, drowning, in your eyes,
Which you insist are grey.
I wish that I could stay
And stare at those big, and beautiful, and blue
Eyes – as clear as water bathing in the beating sun
Or as clear, and blue, and beautiful as the skies.
You make me feel that extra bit alive.

Fingers resting on your skin.
Your body’s warm, but hair’s where I begin,
And slowly start to stroke down to your neck,
And hold your cheek, and give your lips a peck,
And tell you that I love you
To the moon and back.
(It would be further but I’d miss you too much.)
I’d miss your lips, your eyes, and your touch,
And that feeling of invincible I get,
When I wake up next to you and sigh –
You make me feel that extra bit alive.

I am the Protector of the Night,
But I have many names
For I have to pretend a lot.
I make loud noises, chase, and fight,
Play numerous fun, silly games,
But a “boy” I am not.
I sit alone, bathing in the sun,
Waiting for my moment to shine.
My French friend sipping wine
While serving at the bar
Any customer that comes from afar,
Or locals, regulars lacking fun.
I paw the sky as I see “them” come –
Those things that humans often fear.
I see it in their human eyes,
And as they slowly creep near
I jolt up to fight for the sun,
But those shadows struggle to surprise.
They are almost at the bar now,
And I start to attack.
I warn them that I’ll never turn back,
And fight till the end
For my friend.
I paw again and then somehow
He presses a button on the wall,
And the shadows dance away,
And I let him believe that it was he who saved the day.
But I know the truth.
He never understands my call,
But if he did he’d know
That I made those shadows go
By barking, and chasing, and glaring at the roof,
And the floor, and the wall,
And it was that that made them flee.
It wasn’t him but me!
His loyal, selfless friend
That scared the shadows far away.
And I saved him from the horror of it all,
And it made me feel human tall
When I saved him, my friend,
From the darkness of the day.

I awake from my dream of a sundrenched bay
To find I have been swallowed by emerald black,
Emerald white and streams of emerald grey.
Those shadows share goose bumps with my back.
I check my alarm, but the night’s just begun.
The emerald ghosts will have to stay.
Any night is better than a sleepless one
For you’re tormented while you pray.
Hours and hours, yet sleep there’s none
As suffering’s brought out on a tray
Please, soon, the suffering will be done –
An insomniac needs a glimpse of day.
And there it is a glimpse and some
Hope that the Earth might be okay.
God has had his sickening fun,
And now I see that strand of hay,
That thread of hope, that beam of sun.
First a strand and now a ray.
The night fought well, but the day has won
And my room has become a sundrenched bay.
That emerald has been replaced by white
And the thoughtless torment now a pun.
The day at last has replaced the night
As I am moved by the morning sun.

A lot has happened since I wrote last:

The buzz of the university hive,
The blossom of a love, perhaps,
The sunken ship of a recent dive
Resurrected by society maps.

The gallop into some part-time tosh –
The push and heave of a new routine.
Assurance of some Christmas dosh
(About as sure as part-time could mean.)

The stress of snow that assures my fears,
The irritancy of an icy day,
I am now an adult, it appears,
And my childhood life has flown away

To a warmer place on Cayman sands -
A place I know I will never return,
For while I may travel to Cayman lands
My Cayman childhood was left to burn.

It is icy pastures I now graze
And snow that keeps me trapped away
Where temptation begins its seduction phase...
I stick to my decision that day
For now I am happy and the future begins:
My directional debut lies in wait
And a possible partnership to be kings?
A production team? We’ll leave it to fate.

Exams beckon, I’ll deal with them first.

Love? Love is a hug
One of those comforting, never-want-to-let-go hugs.
It is curled up into a ball on the fire-side rug.

It is that act of pure kindness on a ******* day.
It is kooky. It is what I’m not. It is difficult to say.
It is spontaneous and fun, warm, wild and perfect –
But not perfect in an everything-is-good kind of way.

It is the perfect blend of up and down
That keeps the fire alive – without blowing it out.
It is a year-round heat that doesn’t create a drought.
It is your smile, which abolishes my frown.

It is a vibrant colour, a sweet taste, a warm and fuzzy feeling.
It brings meaning to life and makes life that extra bit appealing.

A life without love is like trees without the wind,
Like half a heart.
A wave that breaks before it reaches the shore,
A worthless work of art.
Love is the constant reigniting of a spark.

It is something you would give everything for.
The Ultimate Sacrifice.
And all for that swish of hair, a half-smile, the warmth of that fiery hug.
But that definition alone doesn’t suffice.

Love is that glorious, life-lingering kiss.
It is an eruption of goose bumps along my arms, and down my spine.
It is mythical, only for the movies it seemed, until now.
It is that overwhelming feeling of happiness that you’re mine.

It is patience and commitment.
It is the desertion of the irrelevant “seems important” things.
It is the feeling that allows one’s life to feel complete.
It is the feeling like I’m invincible, or have wings.

It is more poetic than a poem, more spellbinding than a song,
Like the sense of satisfaction after a feast.
It is a personal connection a lifetime long.
It’s the light that makes her beautiful when she’s at her least.

It is beautiful eyes. It is beautiful. It is you.
You who makes me feel like I am by the sea
With sand between my toes and the breeze cooling the sun.
Your voice is the ocean that soothes me.

Love is someone just as strange as I am
Someone who enjoys my strange and I enjoy theirs.
It is that burning feeling deep in my soul
That is present anytime you are not.
It is that feeling that somebody cares.

It is that feeling inside, the sudden urge, the sudden need
To stop everything and say adieu,
To climb to the top of the highest point in the world and scream
“I love you!”

Gather round people; sit close to the flames,
Away from the bitterness, hatred and blames,
Away from the snow and the icicle pains,
In the hope that the fire remains.

Gather round people and hold out your hands,
And clasp them with others, shake off the demands
Of the cold – by listening to Christmas bands,
In the hope that the cold understands.

Hands are now warmed by your friends and the fire,
And though snow’s still falling the cold starts to tire
Because nothing but friendship makes you perspire,
In a cold that will never retire.

Now you are clustered - a finger apart.
The snow beating down can’t remember the start.
The goosebumps remain – it’s the shivers that part
As friends warm the fire of your heart.

A kind friend died this week –
A nineteen year young man.
Falling and rising all in one
And now it is sleep I seek;
Comfort that something has a plan;
And the tears that will not come.

Those that knew him many years
From blood, childhood or school,
Or friends who know only kindness and giving.
They are the ones that bring sleep and tears,
Reminding us that life, no matter how cruel,
Is, and always will be, worth living.

When times are tough and life holds pain
My friends are there to help bear the load,
Warming the fire whilst relieving me of coal.
They bring sunshine to a life of rain,
Protecting me when the fires explode
And breathing life into a poor, confused, and lost soul.

Staring at her beauty - that’s a sin
You were told when you were young that beauty lies within
But it’s hard to not be human
It’s hard to tell such lies
When her beauty makes you fly
And touch the mountains of the skies.

You think that I am shallow
And that’s why I am alone?
They’ll say:
“You’re like a sinking stone
When you’re sat on your throne
You’re going to hit the ground eventually.”

“And like an aeroplane
While there’s others to blame
You know it doesn’t crash naturally.”

And it hurts.
For eyes and mouth seldom operate the same.
I guess that’s down to chemistry!

On lecture’s desk I slowly fall asleep
And gently push my troubles out to sea,
Then head to where my dreams will earn their keep –
An island with a population me.
A sunny, shoaly Caribbean beach
With Caribbean sands and carefree waves.
A place where there’s no need to learn or teach.
Imagination drowns the deep sea caves
In this glorious inspiration land,
Absorbing up the goodness all in one,
The rest remains abandoned in the sand
As both bake slowly, softly in the sun.
But now the time has come for me to wake –
On lecture’s end my friend gives me a shake.

Oh why must love be such a tease?
Those women are a crazy breed!
Can life not find true love with ease?
Those women toy with what I need,
Those with their passionate winks and smiles,
Those longing gazes that burn like fire –
Suggestions, nothingness or trials
Testing objects of desire.

One I love has a lover own,
But is it true or simple fun?
And would our love leave love alone,
Or is this love of mine the one?

Another, single, but I don’t know.
It’s just a hunch that I can keep.
The question’s whether I should go
And take the painful, fateful leap...

The last is one I haven’t met,
The woman who oft haunts my dreams,
A woman I might ever get?
A slim hope for a dope it seems!

A long time ago? Far, far away?
The Death Star collapsed and we could see
The mess it created: explosive spray -
Polluting a space in our history.

Now things are worse. X-Wings coerce
The ice-caps of Hoth to melt into sea.
What are we to do? I haven’t a clue
But hope that the force is strong within me.

The answer is clear watching Star Wars for hours:
Recycling, it seems, is not just for Jawas.

Time is a curious thing. The old cliché.
Not in a "heavy" Marty McFly way
But how, in one moment, you can pray for it
to grind to a halt.
Perhaps as you pound the asphalt
With your dancing shoes
Gasping, through puddles of ***** and **** and *****
To make the very last Nightlink
Of a heart-breakingly beautiful night out on Dublin streets.
And then another moment be wasting it away,
On writing poems, writing *******, writing the truth,
Or standing on the edge of a very tall library building roof
With the short sharp explosion of brain matter, praying it away
As it mulches on the concrete below.
Head first, to ensure success.
To ensure that for the love of god it isn't slow.
How time must crawl for people who can't move...

Each second dripping as slowly
as the painful near of a near-perfect tap.
Or "faucet" as they call it in America.
But then again we have buildings, pieces of paper, all kinds of crap
older than their whole country so what the hell do they know?
Their policemen shoot unarmed civvies or send them to prison  
as a sort of politically correct racial genocide
(because black privilege gets such lovely jumpsuits and body bags.)
Then again, we let priests ****** children here
and think **** is less upsetting than women's rights.
Time doesn't change how consistently wrong people can be I suppose?
If anything we overcomplicate ourselves.
Just think, if I had been born five hundred years ago
I would have died of pneumonia, or something asthma-related.
Or probably gone blind? My eyesight only is getting worse
(although is that to do with my endless-stream-of-computer-screens?)
I feel like that should be worse but I can't bring myself to decide.
Time seems to ask a lot of questions although maybe that is just
because I'm trying to stretch this poem out as long as it takes
before my twenties are over
and my life is more clear and certain
And I have a steady job that I hate
and I am less of a shambles
and have gotten over the depression
and the alcohol binges alone
and the fear of the future
and the self-doubt
and the loneliness
and the sickening
feeling in the pit
of your gut
when you
realise how
slowly
time is
passing
and you want to die.
Or not. I can never concentrate long enough to care.

Today at the train station

A stranger came up to me

And asked for directions.

I had the sudden urge to give him the wrong ones

Or take him behind the stairwell and

Gut him

And let his family watch as stomach and liver

Flobber out over slipping intestines, or simply

Grab him and throw him onto the train tracks

As the half five train approaches.

It would give people a reason to

Remove their sunglasses,

And possibly even their iPods,

Headphones dangling uncomfortably

As they fumble to save a pointless

(As well as futile) situation.

Maybe they would film it with their phones.

Maybe I'd be famous.

Instead I just sigh and give him the right directions,

Tell him the correct train to travel on,

And slowly smile as he waddles off

And doesn't believe me.

The day is young and I begrudgingly traipse out of the covers to check my messages.
My seventeen inches of pride lies proudly slumped across the desk - a laptop.
I lovingly push the plug, slowly, but forcefully into the socket.
The switch is turned on.
Now I use my finger to hover around the power button.
I gently rub it before pushing it in.
Electricity surges through it. Lights spring into action and it starts -
Sounds of an engine revving, purring.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes, before moving my fingers lower,
Descending towards the keys,
And place them softly down, sprawled across the keyboard
Before assuming the appropriate position.
Now, a strange thing happens.
Each button slowly starts to rise up,
Inserting and engulfing themselves in my fingers.
They burrow deeply into my fingerprints -
An abyss of identity caressed by technology.
It doesn't stop.
Meanwhile, the plug has detached,
The lights surviving on battery power alone.
It grows hotter.
The cable slithers across the floor,
Slowly working its way up the inner side of my legs.
It wraps itself around my calves and rises up between my thighs.
The chair gets thrown from beneath me across the room
As I forcefully drop to my knees.
Both my fists are now inside the machine,
Swallowed by blackness.
The cable has worked its way around my waist and up to my neck.
It caresses my ear as it tightens, before making its chiselled tips towards  my mouth -
A literal three-pronged attack.
I can only kneel motionless, and gag as it enters my mouth,
And scream silently in horror as it forces my head down,
Dragging me completely inside as I choke on its power source.
Swallowed by blackness -
An abyss of identity ***** by technology,
Standing silently on the desk, seemingly unmoved,
Until it runs out of battery and dies.

It's hard for me to say how I feel sometimes,
With all the ups and downs,
And violent, stomach-churning, headaches
That violate basic concepts of biology.

It's hard for me to say how I know
What it would feel like to drown in wet cement
And how my throat would feel as it started to harden,
My lungs to shatter whilst freezing in time.
But I do.

It's hard for me to say to my parents that I'm unhappy.
They, who raised me well and gave me privilege,
And brought me to live in the ******* Caribbean,
And enabled me to go to university.

It's hard for me to say that I'm depressed.
That life itself has revealed its true ****-stained form.
That I'm unsatisfied with my privilege,
The things that they sacrificed for me. That they mean nothing.
But it's true.

It's hard for me to say that I'm depressed.
But it is a necessity.
It is keeping me alive.
Reminding me that there is something wrong with me.
But I can be okay.

It's hard for me to say that I'm depressed.
But I can be okay.
Can't I?
There are good days and bad but it never seems to leave...
It is a shadow cast over my being,
Cast over my brain.
But I can be okay.
Can't I?
It's hard for me to say...

Because you said you're poetry inclined,
And because I have something on my mind,
(Along with the fact I have a long walk home),
I thought it fitting I would write this poem -

To express, permitting it doesn't sound too weird,
(Despite the fact I have a paedo beard),
My joy on bumping into you this night -
A darkish day upon which you made bright.

For, although you joke that bi-annual contact best
To being friends, I do have to suggest
That since I've been back home it's helped a deal
To talk to friends over drinks or a meal

About the seemingly insignificant things.
Nobody appreciates the joy this brings!
To a fool like me, who quite frankly is saved
By hearing how friends have acted or behaved,

Like success in college or thoughts that you are fat
(A ridiculous suggestion - I'll vanquish thoughts of that!)
Because collectively I don't exaggerate,
They have pulled me from Hell's (once soothing) gate...

So, I suppose, I'm trying to say thanks for being a friend
And because I don't see you enough
I feel like I can get away
With acting all gooey and stuff
And, quite frankly, a bit gay.

You could have been my Catalan queen.
Such a pocket-sized delight,
Like the one sung by Jack White,
But more of a fun and friendly scene.

You studied graphic design,
And looked after my Spanish group,
And made me want to always stoop
To embrace you for all time.

I'd have given the world to see that smile,
See your beauty one more time,
Sit down with a glass of wine,
Or beer, sangria for a little while.

The offer was open, disguised by others,
And I strongly felt that you were keen,
But, alas, the student's disco scene
Would prevent us from being lovers.

And so I sit, alone with pen,
And mourn what was never meant to be -
It breaks my heart that it is likely
That we will never meet again.

The weather outside is indeed frightful
Despite this the window is left ajar
To stop condensation engulfing
The already icy bathroom.
I disappear behind the curtain
Dressed in a much bigger version of my birthday suit.
Leaves are glued to that open window by ice.
I shiver, shaking until I have the courage
To turn the taps on-
OUCH!
An agonisingly cold burst burns my feet,
My right arm twists desperately
Until my skin starts to suffer a different type of burning,
My left arm mimics the dance my right performed just moments ago-
PHEW!
Finally the water overpowers my goosebumps
And perfection is created.
I can now unleash heaven out of the shower head.
I am being kissed by Niagara Falls.
Steam shrouds the room
And the music begins.
If only life were as perfect as this,
As perfect as a warm winter shower.

It approaches swiftly.
A monsoon of rain readily setting off
Naive natives and their tiresome routines.
Shutters shroud the windows with irrational security,
Sandbags too are placed; it must be a big one!
Clouds roll and tumble into position.
A sunset evaporates quickly,
Yellow to orange to red and BANG,
As quick as a flash of lightning it blackens.
Pure darkness, but for humanity’s scars.
Another scar takes their places
As a deafening crash collapses the eardrums,
Seconds after its divine light pierces the sky,
The soul and that artificial light.
Darkness now, but for lightning,
Blinding flashlights and candles.

Dewy droplets descend into view,
Dripping hopelessly through a silver fork.
Frightened faces too are seen,
Made more frightening by flashlight.
Rain, lightning and thunder
Can’t silence children’s cries
But can still awaken the waves –
Serfs turned warriors in an instant,
Harassing the horrified sandbags,
Overpowered and silenced.
The satanic storm battles on
Callously battering a weary world.
The sickening sun shines into the eye
And a torn green turtle begins to cry.

The false excitement is over now.
I am at home, without work; without friends.
Trapped in the prison called life,
And dying in the slowest way possible.
****** into solitary confinement,
I am eternally confused.
I should be happy but I am frustrated.
Frustrated at myself for wasting time.
Shackled in chains of boredom,
My routine has changed.
While I welcome the lie-ins I have never welcomed change.
The school holiday is over now,
And again I am unhappy.
It is books that chain me now,
And my teachers, the wardens who harass me.
Life is back to how it should be-
We all hate it, but enjoy the company.

This beach had luscious palms
That restricted the ever-powerful sun.
This beach had golden sand
That provided endless means of fun.
The sea, a beautiful turquoise
That combined with the scorching sand as one.

That burning, yet it doesn’t matter, sand.
Fingers sifted through granules so fine,
That distant tropical land,
With that beach of beauty so divine,
With a sand and sea and sky sublime.
How depressing that it once was mine!

Driving past the roundabout.
Beatles on, roof down.
Been working like a dog,
And when we go around
I am reminded of Yeats
And his widening gyre –
A concept quite curious,
His genius I admire.
High on happiness,
The battle today is done.
His words consume my heart away
As my shades reflect the sun.

The music: loud,
Really loud, too loud,
Louder,
Deafening.

Each second stripped away,
Pushed coolly across my face
And through my hair like the
Blustery breeze.
I feel so at ease,
But not for long, for today,
Time turns against me in that race.

Race, race faster.
Go fast,
Faster,
Deadening.

The fateful call comes.
I must accept it
And ignorantly fall foul
Of the unexpected,
As the fumes of summer fruit –
The movement of strawberry sales,
Crosses the beaten asphalt.
My face rapidly pales.

Turning and turning,
Spinning half a dozen.
Anarchy loosened, burning –
My rough beast has risen.

I fail to feel alright,
Drenched in a poppy field!
The music is slowly dying,
Softening.

A revolution has been fought,
Restrained as the summer breeze
Is stopped, then turned on its head.
I marvel at the distant trees
Spinning, so dizzy I can barely move.
Crushed car, blood dripping, crushing me.
The world is as red as those pitiless poppies
And I discover the truth:
They will be the last thing I see,

The last glimpses of life:
Choke, choke,
Eyes spiralling,
Choking, blood,
Drowning.

The sun that day was too bright.
The sign outside my high school,
Lettering black on white,
Protected by a wooden frame.
“No school” had always been cool,
But not since Ivan came.

It says “School Closed Tomorrow,
Listen to Radio for Update”
For most this sign brings sorrow,
For some it’s just a little too late.

A mass of rubble outside the doors,
Wreckage rife.
Churning water destroyed these floors,
And wrecked life.
A loss of pens and many a book,
Utter devastation,
Students work old Ivan took,
Along with education.
Tears shed as I have to leave-
A tiny demonstration
Of the destruction Ivan’s flooding caused.
I did leave, but not before I paused,
And cried for God’s creation.

How can a war be ‘Great’ or ‘Civil’,
When people are sure to die?
Seen by God and the Devil,
Or simply through a child’s eye?

For how can a battle be won,
When the dead will eternally lose?
When cowering behind a gun,
Nobody has the right to choose.

Big men boast of intelligence,
They think they’re number one,
But even apes know the significance
Of Cowering behind a gun.

Is it simply because they’re beastly?
Their technology has backfired!
Their fighting simply disgusts me.
Like other children I am tired.

Why do rich men speak of victory?
Do they think the battle is won?
While these animals line their pockets,
There are children out there, like me,
Cowering behind a gun.

I sit, motionless, a gormless look across my face.
Mouth open, eyes empty, staring at nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Bored beyond the point of no return,
Just letting eternity slowly, very slowly pass by.
It never does.
The teacher tells us to work, but gives us no indication of how.
You can’t do something with nothing.
The clock hands finally move.
Everyone adjusts their eyes.
I am sure every minute takes at least five.
Awkward silence is disturbed by the occasional passing of a page.
Nobody bothers to show an interest in anything except the time.
I begin to wonder if both my watch and the clock are broken.
Highly unlikely.
Whispers are engulfed by orders of silence.
The hypocritical teacher has an everlasting throat tickle.
The minute hand doesn’t move this time,
For time has finally stopped.
I motionlessly sit, wishing, praying that the silence would be broken.