Poetry (words)


Without words everything is simple. No communication allows us to go blindly forward whilst changing nothing. That’s the point isn’t it. To change is to become active and face the things we fear. 

To sit in silence and watch is the easy option, but eventually you become the very thing you despise most. The cause, the know all, the do nothing, the one who let it pass unhindered. 

“Nothing is worth too much effort” If you can’t buy it it’s not worth anything much. And so it goes that we fill the emptiness with the inanimate and on occasions we’ll wipe the dust off. 

We love what surround ourselves with.

Poetry (words)


It starts in your mind and moves through your soul. You know that a replacement could never make you whole. The craving isn’t about the satisfaction or the means to an end, it’s about the desire, the drive, the emotional depths you’d go through to reach it. 

And once you reach it, you understand why you need it. 

Poetry (words)

Eyeballs to entrails 

(One of those days when I feel like the luckiest person alive. When I refuse to let everything that’s bad leave a stain on what’s beautiful)

I find constant inspiration in his eyes. How thoughtful he becomes just soaking up the silence. How at ease his heart is with just being, his mind.

His presence like a drug instantly heightening all of my senses. This kaleidoscope of colours that he brings to my world, his beauty.

I’m the bravest of warriors because he’s on my side. His heart takes bullets on my behalf and turns them into doves, his love.

I’m insatiable for him. Relentlessly craving his touch. He gives passion meaning, he takes lust and turns it into something spiritual, his sensuality.

Every fibre of my being loves every sinew of him, eyeballs to entrails, ceaselessly.

Poetry (words)


Took a boat out on the water to escape the endless hum. Looking to a new horizon for the person I’ve become. 
Every battle that I go through, leaves its scar upon my soul. The coldest of shoulders that I lean on and I’m feeling less than whole. 

Is there such a thing as certainty something more than here and now? A place where words we’ve spoken remain reality somehow. 

Poetry (words)

“Without passion we’d be truly dead”

Destination detoured, objective unchanged. Peace, warmth, shelter, perhaps solace, but definitely determination. 

You can’t be prepared for the decisions of others. You can’t be expected to deal with what’s thrown at you. Some people have switches, others would rather go through hell than just turn off. 

Coldness is a choice. The wrong choice. So as hostility builds and resentment does its best to become your master remember what brought you here. 

Poetry (words)


I hate sitting on chairs where my feet don’t reach the ground, where I have to shift forward to make that contact. 

I hate the cold that numbs my fingertips, never my fingers just the tips. I always place them on my ribs just to check how cold they are.

I hate coffee that isn’t sweet enough. Lukewarm showers and boots that rub my ankles. 
I hate running out of things to say. Awkward silences. Hollow promises. Flowers that wilt on their second day. 

I hate remote controls, channel hoppers. Television as background noise. Capitalism, war, greed. Shallowness and snobbery.

I hate running for the bus. Forgetting all the things I should have said. When time stands still….it’s always at the wrong time. 

Hate is probably too strong a word, but you know what I mean.