Every picture tells a story

In the middle of a picture of industries gates

sat a man who just waits

Unemployed from his 30s onwards

looking for an opportunity

in this life of lunacy

photographed as a sign of the times

this life is full of grime and thought crimes

have we stolen a moment

is there any atonement?

for the man who now sits on a corner

from the established systems in place

who like to hide from the despair on his face.

Do you think they will ever care?

Do you think they will ever care?

the rich and powerful and the big banks

own us with their guns and tanks

will they care when we are gone?

they siphon our money through a straw

Just so they can get richer through the profits of war

on everyone including the poor and disabled

the immigrants and working class able

We are slaves to the rich in this so called Christian country

full of those who would spout forth

I speak of my discourse

but wasn’t it Jesus who said

that it is as difficult as a camel to go through the eye of a needle

as a rich person to go to heaven

the hour is getting late it’s way past quarter past eleven

Or is the doomsday clock wrong

we live on knife edge don’t tell us we are strong

In being poor

heaven can wait for our souls

we need to be cared for…

These are the days

There are days when we toy with innocence

there are days when wear despair as our clothes

days when we truly open our eyes

days when we want to keep them closed.

Days when we have to restrain the pain from our hearts

and there are days when that pain departs.

Days when we feel loved in the morning when we wake

and days when we feel so far away from that love

that we just have to hold on and take the love we are given.

Days when we pretend to be free

and days when we really do hold the key

to doors unopened before.

Days when we feel we can take on the world

and days where we hide in the corner.

Days when we appreciate the flowers and fauna

when we see the beauty of a drop of dew on a rose

and see a new religion being formed

a new baby being born.

Days change what we think and who we are

days where we travel near and days we travel far

drink in the moments and savour the day

because its drifting away

and its all we have!

There is no vending machine for love

You cannot find a vending machine for love

you cannot pretend it’s real love

My heart is on fire

is it a liar?

is all love is smoke and mirrors

if so can I forgive her

I check my change

you are everything I desire

my hearts ablaze

but is this only a phase?

love maybe a chase

but not a vending machine case

I haven’t the money to give

to choose the love I need to live

you are a beautiful woman

but I will never have you or own your soul

at least Love is fair in that respect it’s not out of control

I can put my money into the machine

but I will never be your dream.

A man filled to the brim

A man filled to the brim

with importance like a full pint

waiting to have his glass smashed

and the contents on the bar room floor

in a bar room brawl

or drunk or consumed

by time

I unlike have had my confidence dashed

my pint glass gone it’s contents drunk

I skulk in the background

I was only ever a lemonade man

in the shade never seen or scanned

by eyes

my life never pretty lies.

The change from boy to man (my journey)

I remember my dad calling me a hobbledehoy

neither man or boy

teen ageing is hard
I became a wild card
bottling up my emotions and becoming unstable
I remember the good days and bad
But at sixteen
in my wild dreams
I broke down in sobs and screams
at eighteen
I was diagnosed schizophrenic
but I realise that madness is a pandemic
and most of us will flounder
in its sea of tears

Dreamers disease

You never see my pain

behind the cold rain

I hide them all the same

A so called weirdo

I don’t choose to be schizophrenic

it’s God’s epidemic

when the cave man called to the divine

when he spoke to the trees

as gods when he believed

did you think the ones who didn’t believe

tormented him yes they probably did

but without looking outside our shell

we can’t see heaven or hell

and if you don’t look science as well.

The Character we are

In Stories written

I am smitten by hero or heroin

Life is stranger that the art we stare in

fairy tale romances underneath the surface glances

uncovers a setting

But I am betting you couldn’t of picked a better villain from your library book

But look,

and you will see

that there is a reason behind

their evil mentality.

It starts with there parents story

as it recycles on

Unhappiness detachment from love

is a somber song

sometimes played from a harp.

We are not the people who we thought

we are the stories we tell ourselves

the book our character is the one we tell ourselves we ought to play

but in the light of day

and in the night time

we hold onto the person we’ve told ourselves

we are,

whether we are lion king

or scar

we are not the character written on our forehead by god or the stars

we are the character fashioned and shaped by life our parents and ourselves

But do you know we can change our fortunes by changing the way we think

about ourselves in our own head

by burying the past and leaving it for dead.