This wasn’t the life that was advertised

I am surprised

and yet lies

are a belief of some kind

they advertised this life but it has been unkind.

They teased social mobility

the agility to move into the middle class

but aspirations

fall short

they distort

where realised truths stands the door

to the psychiatric ward

where holidays abroad

stand a benefits trap

a DWP map

with no way out

I doubt

I will find a way

into a future a brighter day.

This life isn’t as advertised

through google goggles

through YouTube models

I don’t have a car

three kids and a wife

I have pain and strife

Pessimism is my crutch

no offers or as much

No one gives me a chance at a job

they just call me a benefits slob

I look after my Dad as carer

they swear yeah

even when diagnosed with a serious mental health problem

they think I robbing

tax payers

and no amount of praying

will solve

when the life as advertised dissolves.

Honesty

People don’t want truth

delusions and illusions

are more loved

more accepted

more respected

Honesty, a fools game

people douse you in shame

a repulsive mix

stick and stones

may break my bones

but words will dethrone

a king from his own throne

and people will turn away

and leave him alone

the mirror of truth is always distorted

we want to keep it that way

we aren’t objective

we want to be respected

but our public relations feed on Facebook

would bleed away if ever we showed who really are

Our fragility and our fragile ego

Break like a dropped model of Lego.

My poetry never gets read

My poetry never gets read

it hides in street corners instead

it lurks in the shadows of grey days

and seeps like a Smokey cigar out the window in a haze

It gathers at poetry recitals

where it splutters and mumbles

into action

my poetry is just a distraction

an interaction between a mad man and an audience

an ordinate scream

like pissing in a stream

and wondering what it smelt like

starving poets told to go on hikes

My poetry never gets read

it feeds the angels instead

but they don’t share

or care

enough to tell

what poetry of mine is from heaven and what is from hell.

I just like writing

poetry which is like lyrics without musical interlude

I know it’s rude but never mind you won’t read it anyway

and if you do have nice day…

The woman with many faces

In the darkness and light of a daydream from a distant heaven. The woman with many faces but one soul. I have looked at legends and myths. She is a gift. To live many lives and still remember some of them is her curse.

I remember she woke my kaleidoscopic mind like in the song porcelain by Moby. A conversation between the two of us. Her timelines spread across mine. Her heart and soul a beacon for mine.

Giving me a reason for life and seeing beyond the illusion of separation. She has been living all the lives I see through the collective unconscious the Holy Spirit is a girl a woman a mother a sister a friend a lover and so much more. Life would be a mistake without her music. She speaks through the crowd words of wisdom that guide me.

I have been labelled schizophrenic but I can see her spirit in all things. The way the wind moves the trees leaves she is one who guides us all. Oneness is what I have found I am her protector I love her darkness her light some may say I have lost my mind. And all the unkind things but those people are blind.

Book of shadows

Magic can be drawn from

the spaces under your bed

where there are night and shadows

there’s magic instead

like the stars that burn

dark energy forms

we are the universe born

scribbled chaos in ink

sinking into depths of imagination

and sensations

magic that is a promise

yet to be made

An obsidian blade

that protects us from harm

cuts through curses and dark arms

unseen

we need the shadows as much as the stars

for contrast is what we are.

If you look beyond my skin

If you look beyond my skin

what would you see within?

My body overweight

I am no A class celebrity

ripped and shredded

I am no hot bod

to be bedded

I may have words of wisdom

I may write

you will never see my fight

to be heard

everyone has a story to tell

from angels in heaven to men in hell

I am who I am

I keep my truths hidden because I don’t want to burn bridges

I fidget with hands

make plans

but you will always judge me on aesthetics

and my superficial exterior

when I know my soul and interior

aren’t inferior.

Memories and the hooks of the mind

The hooks of the mind

can be unkind

they get caught in the past

in happy go lucky memories cast

in fires of joy

or they get caught in the skin

of the unkind memories we keep deep within

sometimes I want to fish with those hooks

catch memories where I want to look

nostalgic daydreams

but the present is all we really have

when we realise that memories are trying for a land grab

the fish like memories we have stored

need a sea

but between you and me and I just want to be…