Thursday, 30 June 2011

A Butterfly's Nudge

The butterflies that ruled my past
appear to have flown away
but I know that they have not died;
for I still feel their wings flutter,
tickling against my itching feet.
I wonder if their wings have strength
to carry me through my fear
back to where I once felt happy
and if so, can I match their strength
and reward their delicate nudge?
I miss this like a punch in the face,
but I will gladly endure
five thousand more if it means that
I am able to once again
be proud of the person I am.

Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Seven Keys

Why are the streets paved with keys
to cemented concrete doors
that lock us out of the sea
and bury us to the floor?
I cannot take seven steps
without seven injuries,
and now my foot has seven rips
in the shape of seven keys.
I will walk right up the walls,
sailing up in loafing ships
and when my face finally falls
I will learn to lock my lips.

Monday, 27 June 2011

Hide and Seek

I have been hiding in this tree
for what feel like hours
and you still haven't found me
through all your scours.
This game is getting quite stale
and very lonesome
for with each search's fail
I find my nest more loathsome.
Maybe if I fell
and landed right at your feet
I could successfully quell
both boredom and defeat.
So I feign feeling ill
and let myself be tagged,
allowing secrets to spill
before feelings get dragged...

Sunday, 26 June 2011

Travelling on Escalators

I am on the bottom step of an escalator with
everything I want at the peak but as 
I start to make my summit, my 
desires also ascend, and so
I begrudgingly accept
that I will never 
get to where
I want to

Saturday, 25 June 2011

Horticulture on a Haughty Culture

If the world is our back garden
then I don’t want these fences
that make all these tensions harden
and put us on our defences.

If the ocean is our pond
then I propose we make it shared;
it was produced that way au fond
so why did tempers become flared?

If this country is our home
why do I live amongst strangers?
Is it safer to live alone
when fellow lodgers present dangers?

If the world is our back garden
then it is time we mowed the grass
and pray the withered grant us pardon
for the Earth’s malnourished past.

Veritas in Caritate

Would you tread on the toes of loyalty
if they blocked the path to sincerity?
                                            Would you still treat the loved like royalty
if they acted with barbarity?

And if a friend insulted another
would you step back to let them clear the air
or would you treat them both as a brother
and step in swiftly to fix disrepair?

If the trusted lost your confidence
could you still meet their deceitful eyes
or would you fail to see past the arrogance
that had unblinkingly told those lies.

The tell tale test of a true affection
is to still love past an imperfection.

Thursday, 23 June 2011

Dreaming at the Wheel

A world of cardboard cut-outs passes me by
as I drive my car towards the day’s sky
with broccoli trees and sweet wrapper bees;
everything looks false and I don’t know why.

Cotton wool clouds part for the orange sun
and I notice that the day has begun
but in rear view sight I can still see night;
all its colours are beginning to run.

I try to overtake time’s gradual change
but passing the time is just far too strange
so I press the break ‘til I feel awake
whilst keeping my chased target in close range.

At my destination I woke at the wheel
and I realised my drive wasn’t real.

Destroy and Deforest

If my limbs hinder your path
by all means
sever them off.

If my torso keeps you warm
by all means
set it on fire.

                                                          If I welcome nesting lodgers
by all means
render them homeless.

If I can provide shade
by all means
let the world burn.

If I feed families
by all means
let them starve.

If you can forgive yourself
by all means
destroy and deforest.

Tuesday, 21 June 2011


The viper snaps at the prey
and finds you locked within it's jaw.
You try in vain to squirm away
but end up frozen in pained awe.

                                                     It wraps its tail around your throat
and squeezes until you can't breathe
and when your soul begins to float
it grinds your bones with its viced teeth.

Even your corpse wont escape,
the viper has you tightly detained
so that you lose all your shape
and only your fear is retained.

Magnum Opus



Forget Me Not

Your windows are all boarded up,
they've been that way for quite some time,
but I can see straight through the gap
into your shamed aging decline.

Yet I can still remember you
as that modern beauty in vogue
back when your features were fresh and new
before they became run down and rogue.

Your door is also bolted tight,
locking away layers of dust,
and it's been known to groan in the night
as the floorboards give in to lust.

I want to unbolt that chipped door
and revisit what lies inside
but then I would be wishing for more
as the former magic will have died.

So instead I leave you derelict
and rue your exponential rot
hoping that your boards will get licked
in a wonderful forget-me-not.


I wear my heart on my sleeve
so when I take off my clothes
I leave my heart on the floor
and though you may now believe
my finger tied uttered oaths
I am rotten to my core.

If I continued to wear
the blazer which holds my heart
I think that I would settle
but I would rather be bare;
as hurtful as a sharp dart,
as delicate as a petal.


I was thinking long and hard the other night
when something terribly struck.
I ended up a horrifying sight
as it finally hit me; 'twas a truck.

Monday, 20 June 2011

Raincoats and Umbrellas

My mind has clouded over
and though occasional rays
struggle to shine through the drab skies
the wind wrestles them down,
hiding them away like a disobedient child,
locked in their room whilst the vicar
slurps his tea approvingly.
If only that child would learn
that they are free to make their own impressions,
free to obey their own conventions,
free to lighten the cracked pavements,
free to provide warmth to the world;
if only that child would learn
that they are free to live,
I don’t think the world would have need
for raincoats and umbrellas.

Saturday, 18 June 2011

Ghost in the Mirror

You're a ghost in the middle of the road,
your arms stretched wide like floating flimsy fences
but no-one's stopped or even slowed
cause their headlights shine through your defences.

Although your stance is solid and static
your image seems to follow my every turn.
I try to shake you off, driving erratic
at a speed so swift it makes my stomach churn.

Your sturdy chin is held so high aloft
with your reproachful glare meeting my eye.
Your broken and battered features so soft
I have a sudden urge to swerve and die.

Instead, I sharply pound at my break
and get out to examine your remains;
upon discovering you're still awake
the guilt that had fueled me slowly wains.

So I abandoned my car and began to pace
and never again sought a ghost's affection.
Not until I got home did my heart race
when I saw your corpse in my reflection.

Running Out of Fingers

I have made more mistakes than I can count
but I'm not too concerned with the amount
as I know they will all be purged away
and only the things that are meant will stay
but still there lingers a sense of regret
that, despite all effort, I cannot forget
so I try to squeeze them out of my head
and replace them with good choices instead
but the pressure mangles my sponging mind,
struggling to go forward as I look behind;
as the pressure becomes too much to take
I realise all effort is a mistake
and if I let chances and choices rise
in a natural manner improvised
then all I can ask is that I have tried
and I have no regrets when I have died.

Friday, 17 June 2011


I tried to make the most pristine piece of art
but it seemed too emotionless and cold.
I then tried to be guided by my heart
but the lack of style meant nothing was sold.

I tried to be inventive and unique
but it sacrificed having mass appeal.
When I tried to keep things simple and bleak
it felt as though my strokes were not real.

I tried to keep my messages sincere
but it made me feel naked and exposed
and if I tried to give in to my fear
I started to become timid and closed.

I then remembered to forget the crowd
and any unnecessary tension
for whatever I make, I will be proud
as I've made it within my own intention.

Thursday, 16 June 2011

Take it as Gospel

I see your tattered pages
and I find myself drawn in
by your popularity.
Your coarse skin's lasted the ages,
from where the first stroke begins,
with just the same clarity
as if it was freshly written,
your message clearly still intact
in words that still hold value.
So many people are smitten
by stories they take as fact
but just how much is really true?
If your word has lasted this long
it must surely hold some truth
and yet there's still that hindrance
that prevents belief being strong:
when your words are devoid of proof
they are devoid of substance,
so I will respect your bible
but wont hold its word viable.

Tuesday, 14 June 2011


The lack of tears
when a baby's crying
confirms my fears
that the world is lying,
and yet people fuss
to notice their needs
placing their trust
into a hunger that feeds,
and so the next time
I'll be more doubting
by matching their whines
with my shouting.


The constant tick and sporadic chime
echoes throughout the hushed and hollow hall
as the birds rejoice at the birth of time
whilst the silence mourns a former time's fall.

The old grandfather is wrinkled in rings
that makes him appear both aged and wise
and at each hour his heart bounds and sings
whilst his mind is filled with bored and tired sighs.

Though the constant tick has lasted for years
he knows that its sound may someday cease
and when the silence confirms his fears
he hopes that his death will be met by peace.

But til that day he'll continue to tick
and in death he'll know that time's gone too quick.

The Smell of Dust

Is dust the smell
years of neglect?


When your route begins to shift
you need to steer the other way.
Decisive action must be swift
to prevent being led astray.

So if one side becomes too strong
pick the  other one for symmetry
then even if your direction's wrong
it provides brand new imagery.

Sanguine Seasons

My personality comes in seasons;
it is now in the height of its winter
and therefore for whatever reasons
I am acting ever so bitter
and so I finding myself wishing for me
when I was that new born lamb springing
and whenever my rebirth will be
I'll have happier songs to be singing.

Charging: 18%

Tonight I'm feeling worse for wear.
These nights are catching up with me
but I will not allow my will to tear
'cause it shouldn't be long 'til I can breathe.
Yesterday I got hope from the sky
and I'm not talking about some God
but clarity within the light
which got me thinking quite a lot.
I realised that I was strong
even if I feel weak and frail
I guess I've known this all along
and that is why I will not fail.

Battery: 5%

My mind is busy, my thoughts are dizzy,
my eyes are heavy, my head is light
but still I must not sleep tonight
so until I get the go ahead
I'll fantasize about my bed
and when I am dead
I will dream of being alive instead.

Walking Away from Routine

Everything has been seen,
everything has already been.
I'm becoming so tired
of the same old routine.

I want to take these blues
that are my yawning old news
and make them a fresh green
to banish their sore bruise.

If I am to smile
I must travel many mile
where, I'm yet to choose
but this may take a while.

So now I will pack
and follow the pavement's crack
but to this broken past pile
I will not look back.

The Guilty System

Dizzy fights meet climatic heights,
read my rights then turn off the lights.
Release me now for another row
then another vow with a furrowed brow.
One day it'll be meant but then your patience will be spent;
it's already bent, I can see by the dent,
but please
one last chance, just one last dance
for me to please
for me to appease.

A Flag in the Wind

Oh how the proudest flags always waver
but they never succumb to the strongest gales
whilst the weak wish that they could be braver
and display regret when their emblem fails.

The highest are the easiest to fell
whilst the low banners are harder to slay
so it is really quite easy to tell
why some like their colours to shy away.

But then again with great risks come great rewards
and so the proudest will always achieve
whilst the others will blend in with the hoards
simply because they do not believe.

So should the wind blow, I may well quiver
but never will my resolution wither.

Tuesday, 7 June 2011

Filling the Void

Filling the void with an unnaturally deemed necessity
that will never live up to the substance of reality
which soon becomes an annoying and unwelcome obligation
and yet the thought of its absence causes such trepidation;
you could exonerate a decision already made
if the motives for the selection are beginning to fade
but to revoke the promises that you had once articulated
would make you be perceived as dishonest, leaving you hated.

The Shy Butterfly

Let us cater for the pillars of the skies,
the stranded angels on Earth’s solid ground
which are the seeds of the winged butterflies
when their potential beauty has yet been found.

Voracious and veiling, they hide in their food
waiting for their chance to ascend from the green
where they are so ingeniously hued
that they’re almost impossible to be seen.

And when the time’s right, they will grow their wings
and beat them furiously to the air
where their fluttering eyes can see what life brings
in the dizzy heights where they’re now deemed fair.

Beauty can arise in places remotest,
it just waits to ascend and be noticed.

Monday, 6 June 2011

The Life and Death of a Flower

Spring’s salubrious skies
greets her wide open eyes
and fills them with brightness.
She opens her petaled wings
as the passing bird sings,
feeling an airy lightness.
The gaping green earth shows
much room for her to grow
and guides her in her climb
until her roots have built
beyond the mourning wilt
of her eventual decline.

Summer’s scorching shine
sooths her aching spine
slowing life to a standstill
until seconds are hours
and petals are whole flowers;
life a leisurely thrill,
but slow becomes reverse
and the heat becomes adverse,
no longer fine and fair,
her weathered skin breaks
and her spine once again aches
as the heat is too much to bare.

Autumn’s blustery glare
coldly whittles and wears
at the very green of her hope
until it is tainted brown
in a wilted frown
of an aged misanthrope.
But still there are odd rays
of times to be gay;
brief reminders of her youth
and yet after these spurts
reality alerts
in a manner cruel and uncouth.

Winter’s cold, frosty truth
slowly helps to soothe
her fragile blistering roots
as the end’s apparent
and her past is transparent
she forgets about old disputes,
and then the end is so swift
she feels an airy lift;
a thankfulness for closure,
and so none will cry
as she’s blown to the sky
in elegant composure.

Sunday, 5 June 2011

The Light Of Whit

Shine the light on the ghost in the corner,
letting the rays penetrate the thick smoke.
The comedian consoles the mourner;
there is a time and a place for a joke
but this is not it, the grave is no stage
for amusements and merrymaking mirth
when the punchline is the victim of age
and the real joke’s been happening since birth,
so let us instead heckle at the dead
and jeer at the clergy’s flat expression,
hoping we aren’t taunted by our death beds
we hide at the back of the procession,
but one day our own stone will face the crowds
and be under their watchful scrutiny,
wishing for the darkness that life shrouds
we set the audience in mutiny
and when that day comes, I will try my best
to keep the unruly lot engaged
putting my best lines to the final test
I will see how the light of whit has aged.

Friday, 3 June 2011

If it Ain't Broke...

Progression without purpose
is regression and worthless
so before you amend
the current style
allow me to defend
something worthwhile.

Thursday, 2 June 2011

Caffeine and Lemsip

He wants to tackle the sombre silence
that darkens and devours the evening;
more daunting than death and violence
it sends the daylight into grieving.
So out he steps into the cold air,
breaking the void with pattering feet,
waging a war against the bare
he stands more upright, beat by beat.
But just then he’s taken aback,
his face in discomfited flush
at sharp noises in swift attack,
his fear would now welcome the hush.
He returns to the light defeated
and drowns the dark with the sound of sleep
dreaming of the night he retreated
and hoping that his fear will not keep.

Wednesday, 1 June 2011

Let the Dead Lie

Deep hollows can make me stumble
when their earth is freshly overturned,
weakening foundations crumble;
the exposure leaves me concerned.
My corpse feels threatened and bare
with mortality on display,
so if you want to show your care
your spades are better kept away.