Tag Archives: life

The cure to the disease

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The cure to the disease

Sparkling and wondrous

the cure to the disease

Experiencing unease

take these pills

tiny white capsules

that won’t make you ill

distilled love

wonder from above

the cure like forest bathing.

misbehaving

often the cure is the disease of a life

lived without regrets

all targets missed and not met

But to try

is to live and not die

a love fragile

but agile enough to succeed

to bleed is to be alive

To breathe is to thrive

the madness the sickness

is to expect no pain

no sadness in the rain

sunshine that burns the skin

balance is boring

whatever gets you through

is the life you choose to do

Politricks divide us all poem

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Right left we bleed the same

can we forgive

live

better lives

Cancel culture the cancer of the left

Bitter resentment fills out our hearts

no love either side

thought police divide us all

right authority with no escape

raid the poor

but the poor hate the rich for having more

is there an answer

or only more hate.

Knowledge is carnage

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Knowledge is carnage it kills lies

Those pretty liars don’t like it!

Knowledge is power

it hurts you want it

more

it opens doors that you shouldn’t want to open

it plays on repeat in hidden escape rooms

with the truth

that pisses you off

it makes you want die

cry open up and ask why?

but it’s scientifically proven

so there’s no getting around it

confound it!

But knowledge is like a clever serial killer you have to look in the right places to find it

and most people unfortunately are blind to it.

This life (my life so far)

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People tell me it’s easy to reach forty

I waged a war to get here

At 10 years old I ran away

a post man found me

and delivered me back to my mum

At 16 psychosis blew my mind

always out of step with time

At 18 I found poetry and rhyme

but suicidal tendencies stuck in my mind

At 21 I climbed a mountain in foreign land to see the Dawn

At 25 I wrote a letter to myself at 16

Because although I saw stars I still bore the scars

from my breakdowns

At 30 I pressed the reset button

and found myself in hospital again

but my life twisted and turned my heart burned

I found creative writing course which inspired at 32

I recited poetry on the radio too

and fought for community projects

to advertise and endorse

At 40 I live my life

I show love and remorse

I fight to live but that’s what life is for me

but in between moments of pain and work

Is the happiness I desired and the freedom I planted like the seeds that formed a tree

I sit in their shade

One day my body will fade

but I will be a soul free in the wind

guiding others my kin.

The history of words

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Words have a history

it’s not a mystery

If you do the research

from racist toys

for girls and boys

we have to respect

words have a history

and so do objects

so please have some respect

and acknowledge the implications

we all want to be loved above stereotypes

and life is cannot be lived in present only;

history matters

and leaves us sometimes in tatters

words will often leave us broken

hurting us more than sticks and stones

and broken bones.

Themes of life

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From Cinematic skies

to the cemeteries where they lay us to rest.

From the hovels of the poor

to the grand entrances of lords.

From ladies who go out on ladies nights

to men beaten by many fights

the stories we tell ourselves

not sold on supermarket shelves.

From the desperate love in ashes

to tattoos of hearts set like gashes

from the schools classes

through to the waiting rooms of life

from the mother cradling her daughter

to the Dad fighting his way through wars and slaughter

to the conventions of gay and straight

the way we breathe in life and wait

or wipe the slate

and find foundations and roots in identity

and eventually bridge the gaps

born into this life our mothers and fathers telling us stories for maps.

Themes of life and love

the great adventures there of.

Simp-pathetic ?

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I love you like you are my light and my life

wanted you to be my wife

loved you like a fetish

black like a rubber skirt

the words you say hurt

you cut my heart to ribbons

and still I am giving

my all

in your dominance I fall

I hit the wall

but I drill through

I love you I still do

but I am ruled by you

the wisest thing to do is to walk away

but I can’t eat or breathe without you

I love you I know I am no wimp

maybe I am a simp

but I love you all the same

in our deranged game.

Under a sign of neon loneliness

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Under a sign of neon loneliness

We are all drifting

shifting uncertainty.

If you don’t say what you mean clearly

it falls apart!

Like the shifting sands of a man’s heart.

I love yous repeated like rhetorical questions

a quest never to be won

a word we lean upon

but who really knows what it means

we can only dream

of being narcissistic kings or Queens

with enough love for ourselves

the magazines sit on the shop shelves

Do they dream of being read?

Loneliness the killer of lives

love the flip side of the coin

but they join…

They call me the bravest man in the world

but I just want to be held

and kept in her cage

admired at her whim.

This wasn’t the life that was advertised

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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

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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…