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
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
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
my life never pretty lies.
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
I was diagnosed schizophrenic
but I realise that madness is a pandemic
and most of us will flounder
in its sea of tears
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.
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
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
whether we are lion king
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.
love Andover poem of the day false hope?
Poem and commentary around the idea of hope formed from a short poem I wrote about a bird singing while being trapped in hell.
The clammer of the overthinking overwhelmed mind
chattering away with itself like a overused hard drive.
Hope, but she is a caged bird waiting for her master
faith but all faith is enslaved in disaster.
A sonnet of despair, a song of solitude
a monologue of filth and the rude
a innocent boy and a prude.
A crazy overbearing self talk squawk
a chalk drawing of heart that’s been erased.
A penis looking up at the sky
A black dog biting its owner
A loner waiting for the strength to cry.
Freedom from attachment
but a wanting to be engaged and attached
Discourse divorced a face scratched.
silence like a scream
a dream turning into a nightmare
a blank stare
a daydream being expelled.
Hell carrying on into a lonely hello
An eye open that cannot be shut
a slut shutdown clown
love becoming only a noun.
love andover poem of the day
A humorous poem about being a right royal pain.
Surrounded by opportunities
Which have been given
Laid at my feet but I need to be forgiven
Because I burn them as offerings
To my self for filling prophecy of pain
insane, I wonder whether I will receive them again
the world draws out the worst in me
If I am surrounded by arseholes cursing me
then won’t I can’t just give in.
Or is my life just a sin?
A tall tale of talent for sale
I move like a snail
when I should hunt like a bear
I stare at advertisers glare
at posters the only person who can change my life is me
I alone hold the key
But in the mirror the reflection I see
Is taunting the shy retiring me
and he keep my status quo
By keep taking the punches low
If I was boxer I be rocky
On the ropes
An eloquent man but also a joke…
Written in creative writing class.
It’s 3 am and I still can’t sleep,
When I think of the bullies at school I weep.
In creeps the hunger to cut and purge again,
The cut of the knife hurts me, though it focuses the brain.
Droplets of blood drip onto the floor
Dull and red, one blood stain more.
In my heart loneliness slowly kills
Making me feel isolated and numbing my will.
My parents are caught in their own private war,
Unaware of what’s happening behind my bedroom door.
My parents are furious at my falling marks at school,
However they haven’t noticed the cuts on my arms at all.
I am left in this house which feels unsafe and unlike a home.
I panic when I am left to my own devices all alone.
My breaths come fast, uneven and I feel sick,
Sometimes I can’t breathe at all, my heart races too quick.
When I was at primary school I had good friends.
These days I feel let down, they’ve turned out to be dead ends.
It’s a shame they all left me and shot through,
now bullies flock around like vultures picking at all I say and do.
Last Tuesday I bunked school and spent it walking around town
people stared at me, making me feel even more down.
I was feeling as if no one understood
So I went to a river near a wood.
I made for my house when it was time to go home,
but the school had already contacted my Mum by phone
My furious Dad threatened me with grounding.
I said “I don’t care! I like my own surroundings!”
The truth is I don’t want to feel anything anymore,
So I pick up the knife to cut myself some more…