I run away.
“When the going gets tough,
The tough get going.”
But this was never what it meant.

I run away.
When struggles rise,
The so-called tough
Find answers, not alibis.

I run away.
I see it clear—
The same old patterns
Etched like black
On white veneer.

I’ve failed each time
To sell the truth,
To live the words
I’ve sold as proof.

Oblivious,
Self-absorbed,
A shallow star
On a fading course.

I am alone.
The crop I reap
Is born from seeds
I buried deep.

I seek no grace,
No pity, no balm—
Only to show
The harm I’ve done.

This is no plea
For some reprieve,
But a reckoning—
The pain I weave.

An apology—
To lay these tools,
This sad refrain,
This harm, to rest.

A truce to hold,
A call to mend,
No absolution,
But an end.

White so pure,
it's cleanliness sure.

Now soaked with dread
and flecked with red.

Heat of me melts into puddle,
my mind will fade and words will muddle.

Steel in chest and searing pain,
my face feels droplets of the winter's rain.

Fur of fire-blackened and bloodied,
as I lay with vision muddied.

No one will come though they look in flocks,
for I am just a simple fox.

I never thought I’d leave my house and think "God what an awful place."

Drag my shattered body to the pub down the road I call the gaping black hole for debate.

You ask me once again “Why are you leaving?”
Then I tell you everything, but you won’t believe me

And I don’t know why

The landlord said it’s really nice.
But I should have told them no

In this part of town, you’ll see no products in the shops that you haven’t passed discarded on the floor.

Need to move or at least get out of the house, but on all my friends I’ve firmly closed the door.

They’d say, “Would you like to come to London Bridge it’s looking busy”?

“No, I’ll stay in E&C, watch a drunk set fire to a Mitsubishi”

You ask me once again “Why are you leaving?”

Then I tell you everything, but you won’t believe me

And I don’t know why

Lettings said it’s really nice.

But I should have told them no

Useless

Useless has a brand-new way of being defined
Look it up you’ll see my face all pale and bland
Glass nails in my pocket and a chocolate teacup in my hand
I’d like to sit with you, at least until the tears are gone
But my stiff British upbringing just tells me to put the kettle on

I stand there, put my head in my hands and open up my mouth
But all I do is crack a couple of bad jokes
The kind I’d use over a pint of lager with some Football blokes

Just a couple of bad jokes

The kind I’d use at a party I’ve attended on my own.

20 past eleven never seemed to feel so late
But an evening in stunned silence
Sets the clock to a deathbed heart rate
I stand there with half a cork in my hand
Hoping red will take the edge off and complement the bad

Then all I do is crack a couple of bad jokes
The kind I’d use over a pint of lager with some Football blokes

Just a couple of bad jokes

The kind I’d use at a party I’ve attended on my own.