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.

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…

It’s all in your head

It’s all in your head

the schizophrenia

the uncertainty

behind the curtains of your mind

to be special,

to be magic is to be tragic

to be alone

than one of your drones

is your superhero ability or curse

left in the storm of denial

we are all crazy here

with broken smiles

token, broken people

who believe in science and logic

So pluck your theories from the air

and prove you care

you make the meaning

even if your dreaming

It’s all in your head

so drive yourself mad

and stand alone

even the devils throne

is not comfortable but it’s home

The erosion of empathy

You play hero I will play villain

though shades of grey exist and the truth not always willing

to rear it’s ugly head

filled with the expectation of being cancelled

and being heard

or Amber Heard

is different from being adept

or Johnny Depp.

we are divided down many lines and labels

and what we are being told merely a fable

when we can’t take it with a pinch of salt

and we halt

and can’t show a sign of empathy

How did life and judgement get so unjust

and all cards we hold are bust

because we no longer care just lust over celebrities

while our empathy is eroded and no treaty

or thought police AI can save us

from not understanding the people we see before us.

Pestilence

I am a prison of puppets

muppets who can’t free themselves

Supermarket shelves bare

I am cursed

empty pursed.

lips dry and empty

swept under the Carpet of artificial grass

I can’t be arsed

freedom is too hard a task

I am can’t save myself

for all grasping

rearrange the letters in my name

it spells denial

I can smile

but happiness won’t change a thing

I can’t stop dreaming

scheming

a way out of dread

but pestilence fills my head…

Voiceless child

I was wild and free once upon a time

a child with time and rhymes

but my parents can’t listen

just thought of me being bad

curbing my behaviour

they couldn’t be my saviours

I went quiet wanting to start a riot

It could have gone two different ways

but life strays on to one path

the aftermath of which

made me a background poet

my poetry is the ink I bleed

from wounds I don’t need

My parents need me to be their counsellor

but I can’t

I just can’t…

cycles can be broken

when loves awoken

but sometimes I want to fight back

to see the crack

of light through the walls.

The Emergency Poet

The feel of the pen

on the paper

the poet grabs a verse.

the dripping of morphine

the flow of endorphins

flow of electronic lines

across the monitor

let’s hope we don’t flatline

this mere mortal

needs a portal to the stars

this mere mortal needs

defibrillation to the heart

the way the poetry forms

in the lungs and the mind

the way life needs beauty

is sometimes unkind

I am the blood transfusion

the illusion

of poems

bells chime

Electrons flow

Radioactive X-rays know

Poetry opens doors

I am the emergency poet

I will take flight

in flames

never shall I be tamed

But I will make that heart beat

and get you out of your seat

And on the road to recovery

and discovery

Because poetry heals

and steals back our songs

what could go wrong?

Exceptional

In the days when the exception they say

doesn’t need correction.

we are all creative

but some have it beaten out of us

at some stage

the war the exceptional person rages

is either to have their words heard

or to keep their creative side alive

and not have it brutalised or strangled

an Angel or messenger of light

has to fight to maintain their angle of light

and their perspective and sight.