You carefully choose your words
like a surgeon selects a scalpel,
then smiling you begin to slice
easily exposing my defenceless heart.
You lie saying all you desire is
to find the real me, when
your actual motive is
to eviscerate all in me you hate.
You leave what’s left of my essence
congealing, piled in a heap
ready to be burnt.
Then you lay down your scalpel
reach for needle and thread
and sew yourself inside me.
My halo is a cheap chew toy
which I gnaw on like a teething infant,
wanting to bite hard, finding only tender gums.
Calloused fingers rub its now dull edges
old scars like dead ley lines.
I hold the halo up to the sun
trying to rediscover its lost lustre
staring until I go blind.
Do you remember our last time?
Afterwards you said loving me had turned into a hate crime,
as I’d changed so little, while you’d grown so much,
I tried to hold you but you recoiled from my touch.
Then when you’d left as I lay there wishing I was dead,
the clever words came to me I wished that I’d said.
I’ll never forget our last time,
as I tried to capture it all in words and rhyme.
Imagining that if I put my memories on the page
we’d be together forever until the end of days.
However because of the way my fractured reflection goes,
which of us was right or wrong no one will ever know.
I am multifaceted, an imperfect gem,
expose me to the light and see my many flaws,
all wrapped tightly around my DNA
like a Rizla round a badly rolled cigarette.
I am the lifeless soul of the party,
always found hiding in the kitchen
nursing my spirit.
I am the over analyser,
constantly looking hard for hidden meanings
in friend’s words, then replaying conversations
in my head like a scratched CD.
I am the smoker outside,
hiding behind nicotine clouds,
trying to find the courage to step inside.
I am the hoodie wearer on the bus,
whatever the weather I hide
avoiding eye contact,
pretending to be asleep.
“I am a textbook case.“ My GP often says.
“I am getting better.” My Psychiatrist makes me repeat.
I am just taking it all a day at a time.
We are the one a.m. ruminators
notepads nestle next to night lights.
We are the stranded commuters
left behind with our baggage.
We are the happy hour irregulars
drowning our dreams together.
We are the broken clock watchers
more often wrong than right.
We are Marmite
spreading love and hate equally.
We are the lurkers in digital domains
searching for virtual acceptance.
We are the eternal worriers
picking at the scabs of our doubts.
We are the shattered enigmas
unable to find our missing piece.
We are stigmata bearers
scratch marks adorn hands and wrists.
We are the sum of our scars
memories multiply then divide us.
We are the broken puppets
use us with no strings attached.
We are the medicated masses
numb as our world falls apart.
Taken from my new book Irritable Vowel Syndrome available on Amazon UK here
or Amazon USA here
I see you hiding in a window’s reflection
or in the shadow of a street light.
I see you in the pattern of fallen leaves
or traced in the stars at night.
The final days of the year draw in like starving wolves
all harsh red eyes and sharp slavering jaws.
Pouncing they smash you to the floor,
you close your eyes begging to be allowed to forget it all,
as the pack close in with a bloodthirsty roar.
Or maybe it ends this way?
The final days of the year draw in like starving wolves,
all hollow dull eyes and toothless jaws.
Your simple truth sends them cringing to the floor,
that there is no part of this year you wish to forget at all
and the song of your days becomes a primordial roar.
Happy New Year to you all.
These folded pieces of paper I hold are
worn and creased like the soul they come from.
They contain stories pulled like a
rotten tooth from my life,
stories that are as tired as I am,
that are hard to read.
But I still carry these pieces of paper with me
forcing my life into
the ears of puzzled strangers
continually courting controversy
just to spark any reaction.
Until my audience reveal their hand,
their own pieces of paper just
as worn and creased but also
burnt, ripped, shredded and worse.
I fold my life back up
and put it away again in my pocket.
Wondering why I
ever took it out in the first place.
Time to relax now.
Happy Christmas to you and
a peaceful New Year.
Have a great festive season folks, thank you for checking out my poems throughout the year I’ll be back with more after Christmas.
A real Christmas tree
a true evergreen beauty.
Needles in my feet.