‪I could never try to **** myself, not again. But maybe if I'm lucky, which is a different question, I'll get hit by a bus on the way to work‬

She was too beautiful a flame to not be drawn in.
I flutter, ever closer, wanting nothing but to feel her warmth without singeing my wings.

And so, my Tweet Verse reaches its sad conclusion.
My characters, though they double in size,
Are fed to the wind,
And a new chapter begins.

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That emerald has been replaced by white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.

They used to burn, stretch, or cut you, but now, they just get a girl with a beautiful smile and soul to not use Facebook very often. Agony.

We are waiting at the same bus stop, but only for one fleeting, heavenly moment, before we depart, apart. I dream it's soon stuck in traffic

Yah. Aw jeez. Blood and snow, I tell ya, scary stuff.
That Fargo's mighty rough,
And I'm guessing that's your accomplice in the wood chipper

The world is dark but it is also a place full of life and within those lives there are good people and sometimes one of them makes you smile

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...

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.

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...

On occasion, when one sees a man's front garden destroyed to make space for a new car, a nuclear holocaust seems quite an apt end for us all

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.

It seems a while since Jesus died.
Not that I believe in the chap,
But if he were magically real, I'd
Think he'd be appalled at all this crap.

It seems a while since laundries reigned
And women were shamed and sent away,
But, alas, we've lost as much as gained
As men control our fate today.

It seems a while since Markievicz fought,
But still didn't suffer the fate of men.
Different powers today have sold and bought,
But it's power the same as it was then.

It seems a while since rampant abuse -
We thought they'd run out of kids to **** -
Of course, I'm joking, there's always an excuse
To **** and ruck and then not look.

This Easter let's bow our heads and pray
And think about our moral code.
Just kidding, there's ***** on Good Friday -
We'll be hung-over as we erode.

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.

Scholars debated for decades
The meaning of those words
He had written.
He couldn't quite say
But knew they had been important at the time.

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.

It's a rare thing these days to meet someone who makes you feel better about yourself. It's hard to process that feeling in any way but love

Poets are the creatures who can't love themselves
So they try and love everyone else instead.
The tragedy is that it always ends badly...

Take a bow you white knights
As you blast the Academy's critics
With silent "N"'s and thinly veiled white hoods
Check your ******* privilege

The dry-stale phlegm of cider on those morning-afternoons,
The pounding of your head aside the clangs of coffee spoons,
The dreary, heavy weariness that's clogging up your eyes,
The alcoholic drinks them all until the day he dies.

A woman is like a summer's day.
No. A woman is like snow.
No.
A woman is like a woman.
She is not an object standing in the way.
She is not a thing
Placed on this Earth for men
To worship or disrespect
Or idealise or infantise
Or use to project fantasies
Or disappointments.

A woman is simply a woman,
But, when you meet the right one
And you tend to get things
Poetically-done,
Then you often feel the desperate urge
To write down how she makes you feel
And shout about her to the world
And compare her to everything.
Except other women.
They don't like that.

You're so beautiful my head gets dizzy talking to you. And those words escaping my mouth just stumble. Over your. Eternal eyes. Where was I?

The bombs fall over Kiev.
Silence! Snow ashes.
Uncomfortable muzzle as it
Settles on Moscow.

The bombs fall over Kiev.

Clanking, chewing the fat.
Bumbling Boris huffs and puffs
As he fingers his ear and fumbles
His pants out of his mouth crack.

The bombs fall over Kiev.

Babies cry, smothered by fear.
Old Joe struggles to forsake his afternoon nap,
While old “Mac” Donald continues to quack and be a quack.
Fittingly synonymous with a sharp burst of wind.

The bombs fall over Kiev.

And yet the skies are silent.
The West whip out their dic-Boom-Boom-tionaries
And stumble and grumble over the worth of human life.
They danced this dance quite recently,
But there’s always room for cha-cha-cha
And grinding out a lower price.
The clock ticks louder – BOOM, BOOM BOOM,
But only for the powerless.

And the bombs fall over Kiev.

Pow! Bang! Bang! That small, old man
In his big red house plays with his toy soldiers,
And his toy towns,
And doesn’t half throw it all out of the pram.
Butlers and maids scramble
To make sense of the nonsense
And the egg on their faces just for you.
Incoherent ramblings of a paltry rich fool.
And yet that’s the sound of the world flying by,
The sound of the world’s greatest tool:
The grasping hands of paltry rich fools.

And the bombs fall over Kiev.
And Palestine. And Yemen.
And the dinosaurs still make a mean cocktail.
And it’s all so ****** predictable.

Exasperated gasps…
The rest of us just look goggle-eyed,
And hashtag flags, and thoughts and prayers,
And throw our paltry money wondering when
It all became so helpless, and why
We still pay for the merry-go-round
When it’s so completely broken.
We scramble to put back our fallen teeth
And kick our brothers to the curb for shelter
Under a wet, cardboard box –
(If you fold it over it provides more cover from the rain,
But the benefit of boxes, of course,
Is that they can completely fit over your head.
The noise is easier to drown out in the dark.)

And the bombs still fall over Kiev.
In broken hospitals and apartment blocks
And schools and churches
Hearts thunder,
And brave Ukrainians hear the noise
And the silence.

The world is growing that little bit older, and everyone around you is blooming like flowers in spring and you are just stood there, rusting

"You know nuthin', Jon Snow!"
Now get your blood and **** out for H.B.O.
I don't care if you're a Stark,
I'm only watching for Emilia Clarke

‪Desperately failing to forget you.‬
‪It's hard to look forward to ‬
‪The blue Cuban seas as they part‬
‪When you're a Caribbean sunset in my heart‬

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.

Some days there is a huge sense of achievement in reaching the end of them to fall asleep. The ability to get through the hard days is power‬

The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of Snap -
Because we're all too stupid to play chess.

I finally send the message and now I wait.
Every second is agony and I could drown in the silence,
Just like I drown in your eyes every time

Some people have a phobia of clowns, but I just have a fear that one specific clown with a beautiful smile doesn't feel how I feel about her

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!”

You have to respect a woman's decision to hate you.
Even if that woman is the one of your dreams.
You'll probably spend the rest of your life
Loving the ghost that briefly drifted by.
It might be a lot shorter than average,
But by god, what a way to go -
Death by love.
I can only hope she's happy...
Eventually. I know it's not a short-term fix.
I can only hope that she is happy, eventually.
As long as my renewed depression
Has a purpose then I can have some comfort.
An uncomfortable exchange, but, all being said,
If she'd come to me and upfront asked me:
"Can I give you my depression in exchange
For some temporary contentment?"
Then I would have agreed.
Who could deny that beautiful soul anything she wanted?
I can only hope that she is happy.
I think I need help
But I'm oh so very scared.

‪I poured my words into a letter,‬
‪Made sure I got every drop -‬
‪That was the easy part -‬
‪Saying how you make me feel.‬
‪The hard part is waiting‬

‪"Gráinne, I love you," into the wind.‬
‪When you are drowning, you can't hear as well. ‬
‪It is funny the things you forget when you're in love.‬

‪You're a hot stove from which I got burnt‬
And scars remain,
But they were never wasted,

'Cause although some say I've never learnt,
You don't remember the pain
When it's the best meal you've ever tasted.

Pardon my French but -
That **** Parisian accent,
The mischievous smile,
The devilish sense of humour
And, my heart, she's fire
******* hell

And who would have thought
That it would be here?
Sandwiched into a backseat
Between a sleeping Chinese man
And a dear friend,
Behind a sleeping couple
Lovingly caught in a snoozy embrace
In a cramped Chinese bus
Amidst a bustling buzzing Beijing
As the sun seeped through
A smoggy winter's sky.

Who would have thought
That it would be here?
Being soothed by her playlist -
A sort of modern mix-tape
Full of love and thought
And desperate longing
And lust, more love
And the most intimate
Of gestures.

Who could have thought
That it would be here?
Here, where an epiphany forms,
Against a sea of weather-beaten, weary and reddened faces,
That my darling, sweet Isabelle
Is made of ******* poetry.

Happiness can be bought.
One rises, one falls.
Children starve, blood is spilt and wars are fought
Over what shade of cream adorns our walls

Missing:

Thomas Newlove
Male, 25 years old, 6'5", slim,

Last seen in September with an unknown female.
If found, please return to her:
Victim doesn't learn from his mistakes.

Depression is having a completely normal day,
Equipped with teacher's mask and a jovial eccentricity
To keep the students bubbling,
Only to leave the train station and catch a glimpse
Of a girl with pink hair -
And just for a few seconds you think it's her,
And she's with somebody else.
Not ditching you for her own mental health,
But ditching you because you're not worthy
(Which is true.)
Ditching you because you couldn't be trusted.
Ditching you because you did something wrong.
And the thirty minute walk home
Seems to take forever longer,
And your stomach pounds and aches
And scrambles to be free of your body.
It craves her like every other part of you -
Your aching brain, your aching hands,
Your aching, aching heart.
You get home and you just want the world to
Swallow you up -
"There's a letter for you."
Maybe it's the citizenship,
Maybe today I catch a break,
An escape from the feelings of emptiness
Pounding my head.
An escape from the feelings of heartbreak,
The anxious catacombs of my brain
Poisoning my beating heart.
Your graduate account is being terminated.
From November you will pay bank charges.
Completely inconsequential.
Not a lot of money.
Why did I start drinking
And why can I not stop crying?

I told her about my pin badges -
It was that kind of intimacy.
She went away
and we talked every day,
But brought me back a fridge magnet.

Pandemic
I.
Staring at the empty screens
Of all our ineptitudes,
Our demons whetting whistles,
Our joints atrophied.

Staring at the walls –
Surely not the news.
Can’t bear to look at a mirror anymore.
There’s something deeply unpleasant
Growling back.

Or the pub across the street with its
Christmas lights burning,
And the bar dark as the world was at night
Before we killed it with our fire.

II.
A million hours and a million monkeys
With half-baked ideas and reddening eyes
All trying to pen the next dime novel:
Pandemonium or Apocalypse Today,
Praying pulp doesn’t pulp before being read or read about
By the tired eyes and hands counting
Cheddar and pages and hours,
Until we all clock out.

My contribution to a dying ocean of death –
At least that’s what Bo reckoned
(Among many others drowning)
Is a journey through childhood
And wannabe streams of King and ‘cuntry.’

The old post-colonial riddle:
Can we be sorry for what we’ve done?
Endless masks thrown to the ground
Amongst self-respect and science and what
Used to be described as thought and thinking.
At least that’s what we kid ourselves.

Civilisation was never particularly civil.

III.
Start making the tin foil hats –
We won’t be leaving the house anytime soon.
We’ve a television series to finish scribing –
Eight years down and surely eight more to go.
There’s a four-hour silent French movie to watch
And what about your vegan friend –
Who hasn’t finished his journey to salvation yet?

There’s an endless stream of distractions to go:
You’ve read twenty-five books so far –
And it’s just gone July.
There’s an endless stream of desperation
And an endless stream of angst
And an endless stream of nothing
And death is just the beginning
Of
Your
Nothing.

And as the bard rightly charged:
“Here ain’t no place for dolls like you and me.
Everybody’s on a barge
Floating down the endless stream of great TV.”

So among the burning, we find a seat,
Nestle into that newly worn spot on the couch
And pretend we’re not there.

‪If I had to pick one moment to keep,‬
‪It would be that night when I walked you home ‬
‪And we kissed and were anxious ‬
‪But you seemed so happy.‬

Fallin' in love is easy. The hard part is copin' with it when it ain't reciprocated. 'Cuz you're lookin' for a light that simply ain't there

They travelled the world together to expand their minds and live fulfilling lives. Today they return to discover - they have learnt nothing.

I firmly believe everyone does
Something for a need,
A desire of completion,
Of fulfilment.
I write, hoping the words
Will envelope the hole.

So I spill, I bleed, I fuss,
Pouring out feelings of greed,
Of hurt and frustration,
Of love, contentment -
Plug the emptiness with words
To fix my damaged soul.

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.

You have deprived me of sentence constructions.
I want the world to stop
Belle and Sebastian ringing in my ears
Again, again, again
Not singing, not music, just ringing
Like a bomb exploded too close.
Pink hair, cute glasses, cuter smile
Desperation and drowning
Losing you bit by bit,
First it was the desire to stop talking
Then it was blocking Facebook messages
Then it was whatsapp
Then it was now seemingly deleting Facebook.
I can't decide if you hate me or
If you are calling out for help and I
Can do nothing.
I didn't think I had loved you or known you long enough
For you to hate me.
I'm helplessly following you down a dark
Dark dark dark dark dark dark
Path.
Words are not making sense and gibberish
I'm just struggling to write through the tears
AND I NEED YOU... my oxygen
It's all I have left in my soul.
What's left if you love a ghost
But to **** yourself?