Under a sign of neon loneliness

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.

Prison of loneliness

From the lake of fire

to the snake of desire

I am lonely.

Hell is carrying around loneliness with you

it grows out of all perspective

it grows with you

it starts with a child’s heart

of wanting acceptance and love

people’s love

then it turns into anger and rage

that you cannot have those connections you yearn for

that you burn for

in later life

a maddened heart torn apart of the fear

that you will never see one person from one day to next to make meaningful conversation

that ache in your heart becomes more than a sensation

You learn that your needs won’t ever be met

that life has caught you in its net

But you are forever alone.

No one knows what you go through

in truth even if they saw your entire life

their perspective wouldn’t change

or see yours, isn’t it strange?

to be cast adrift in world that promises much

and delivers very little

hearts grow cold and brittle

and they break in many ways

Not just in half in the centre

you may plan your ventures

you may look for adventure

but your only friend is you

and love is only love if that’s the truth

I am the I am

Alienated alone

Friendless in the friendzone

No forks to give in a world of spoons

A real world character in a world of toons

a goon army

that want to harm me

I must be barmy

An only child to a wild man

a Stan to other people

imposter syndrome makes me feel unequal

the film I wrote won’t be a prequel

it’ll be where I stand

to where I finish as a man

This life is bitter

a litter of ironies

this life is a cycle

but the spokes won’t break on this bicycle

I am a nutter

with clutter in my head

I am smart but not book smart

I am art

but in chaos

I am the freedom you find in loss

I am joy but the heartache it cost

I am the I am and I am god

I am the I am but I am a little sod

I am the odd

one out

I am you and your every doubt

the beating second

the way it beckoned

I am reckoning

I reckon

When I reach the end

send

for help

I know I am freedom

this is where I gulp

for air…

In the cupboard of lost purposeful poetry

In the yellowed worn out dusty pages

the poetry that had a purpose is not lost

no matter how much the ideas cost

In this cupboard space

like the recesses of my minds eye

Ideas on the page never die

the reader if they thumbed through my poetry

would likely gain a paper cut or two

red ink another happening

mapping the page

the poetic wars we wage

on this desperate stage

between poet and reader

In this cupboard hidden away

will these poems ever see the light of day

like the dead poet lost in time

his reasons and rhymes

still unearth histories

and mysteries of life and of the earth

from birth to the finish

these ideas won’t diminish!

Maybe behind the library rooms and shelves

the poet unpublished poet finds themselves

and their voice

And these poems and half finished ideas

give a voice to voiceless after all these years

will be found and treasured and made into books

that people will treasure read and look

after finding this lost cupboard.

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.

Honesty

People don’t want truth

delusions and illusions

are more loved

more accepted

more respected

Honesty, a fools game

people douse you in shame

a repulsive mix

stick and stones

may break my bones

but words will dethrone

a king from his own throne

and people will turn away

and leave him alone

the mirror of truth is always distorted

we want to keep it that way

we aren’t objective

we want to be respected

but our public relations feed on Facebook

would bleed away if ever we showed who really are

Our fragility and our fragile ego

Break like a dropped model of Lego.

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…

If you look beyond my skin

If you look beyond my skin

what would you see within?

My body overweight

I am no A class celebrity

ripped and shredded

I am no hot bod

to be bedded

I may have words of wisdom

I may write

you will never see my fight

to be heard

everyone has a story to tell

from angels in heaven to men in hell

I am who I am

I keep my truths hidden because I don’t want to burn bridges

I fidget with hands

make plans

but you will always judge me on aesthetics

and my superficial exterior

when I know my soul and interior

aren’t inferior.

A different operating system

My iOS

is analytical

my circular thinking sometimes is an ellipses

my blacklight is the moon

I sometimes feel a sense of doom

pessimistic gloom

whether I am apple, android or Linux driving this computers machine

I laugh until I scream

My search bar is Firefox

not Google

It’s has an interesting internet history

why is a mystery!

special interests

religion

Science

and philosophy

A cacophony of voices

and anxiety about choices

My App Store has flaws

is yet to be developed

my operating system

has ghost code

I sometimes have to try to avoid goblin mode

I find social stuff hard

Autism spectrum disorder

It’s hard to understand

even with AI

I know I am wired differently

I just don’t know why?