I am your gift

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Gifted to you

not in the greatest wrapping paper

but I am person you can savour

not aesthetically pleasing always to the eye

but to you I would never lie

I speak the truth

I can make you smile

all the while

you can’t buy me from any supermarket aisle

I am your gift

you can’t find me under a tree

I am too big

I am messy but no stig of the dump

I work hard for you walking in trainers my pumps

I am your gift

remember me when your having a bad day

I will come round and lighten your sadness as much as I can, ok?

for I am a friend the greatest gift of all

is when you and I rise and walk tall.

Grumpa (about a Grumpy Grandfather)

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Grumpa

Sitting in your old arm chair,

With a devil may care,

Attitude.

Talking about the ingratitude

Of youth.

Watching TV,

Eating microwaveable meals,

Grumpa,

I still love you,

I remember the times when I was young,

and you helped me,

when I was stung,

by a wasp,

or fell over.

Life is hard,

it makes you,

grumpy and 

lonely,

Please think of the things you’ve shown me,

Rather than talking about the things that make you despair

I know behind the passive aggression you still care,

I know I sometimes take the Mick,

But really Grumpa,

I can see all your tricks,

There is still, to my surprise,

magic behind those eyes,

And bedtime stories waiting to be read.

Grumpa, 

Don’t lose the thread 

We all need a grandfather like you,

For you have all the experience,

You will know what to do!

The narcissist trap

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I stare at my phone screen

dreaming, scheming

I need constant attention

what a wonderful invention

I need likes and comments

I can write sonnets

to myself

in my Instagram posts

I can puff my chest and boast

but all my dreams are toast

I am narcissus staring at my reflection

on further inspection

I only love myself

and this phone is an extension of me

I shouldn’t choose to die

but this life is self absorbed lie.

Just thoughts

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Thoughts

Thoughts should fill my mind

but I am blind.

my words just hot air

and my tears just water

I sink beneath the autumn leaves

I am just caught here.

my sentiments just cliches

my ideas yesterday views

the true artists leave me

they pick apart my clues

My brain just wreckage

my poems just spoken

all thats left of me is shopping carts

and Tesco’s tokens

My wages are benefits

My unemployed gains

I am picking apart the drains

for my blood stains

everything I do

I haven’t even got a clue…

Her gardner’s hands

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Time may pick her locks

moths eat her frocks

and her splendid looks may fade

but she will still hold my heart

like the spark of her voice

hangs like an echo in the Everglades

in Elysium fields her flowers grow

Only the roses know

the gardeners hands

we nurture the voice we want to hear

even if it is the one we fear

we grow all of what we know

I loved her so

but I was fearful of losing

the ghost of her out of my head.

For if I lose her voices dulcet tone

I will be truly left alone…

End of Era

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Records and tapes

times that were great

when mobile phones didn’t exist

or were brick like

we went on hikes

long walks

football games in the park

until it got dark

we played board games

and weren’t board

hero quest and chess

Droughts snakes and ladders were the best

Rubiks cubes

Ice pop tubes

frozen lollies

going to the beach

with a brolly

being active roly polys

watching 4 TV channels

going to grans who always had the radio on

feeding the ducks and swans

with my Mum

Dad taught to ride a bike

without stabilisers

play fighting with siblings what could go wrong?

feeling invincibly strong

and a feeling of hope

the future wouldn’t be a joke

and it was the end of era

a 80s child a 90s young man

somethings you have to experience to understand.

Clown huntress

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The circus mirrors gives her the shivers

Her lips begin to quiver

She hates clowns

and her frown

turns into bestial snarl.

her cheeks flash red

all she can think of is blood instead

and meat

Which she wants to eat

as her hairs stand on end

and are caught by electric instincts

her teeth become sharp and canine

and eyes shine an unnatural shade

as her body begins to rearrange

her spine tingles

her coccyx sprouting out of behind

A now wagging tail

Her feet bursting through her dainty shoes

her arms begin to flail

she is in shock but somehow it feels right

those clowns will get it

they will not live to regret it

growling at the mirror at her reflection

her skirt tearing at the seams

full moon screams turning into growls

then a howl

As her body is exposed

this is what the crystal ball

and fortune teller said

“when the moon becomes blood red

you will see what you are in the distorted mirrors and be fed”

As she smashes the mirror

drool dripping from her tongue and teeth

the werewolf released

from her human cage

to rage against those foolish clowns.

When Facebook…

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When Facebook is filled with memes

broken pictures and shattered dreams

when you respond with a haha like

but no one recognises your plight

when they are too busy finding out their character is that of a potato

and you get ignored but don’t hate though

when they share posts like who would narrate your life

and you want to get out of that conversation because it probably be piers Morgan and his wife

remember you chose to live on Facebook and be a troll

and life is out your door and off your phone which is sucking away your soul.