The hum of machinery,
Cafeteria coffee,
Heavy duty laminate:
These things haunt my nights.
Fat little face -
Look, but don’t touch!
“He’ll be fine,” they’ll say.
In ten days time you’ll open your eyes
And frankly, I’m fucking terrified.

I’ve hoped before,
Convinced myself
That medical miracles happen all the time.
Damn doctors don’t help,
They’re so full of shit,
They console with sugar-dipped lies.

Negative thinking will do me no good.
Sleepless nights, cigarettes, they do me no good
But the hand we’ve been dealt… As far as I see,
At least this way life can’t disappoint me.

Never Heard A Woman

My thoughts cower in the shade
Of my heart’s depths
As they confront themselves.
My soul is heavy with a thousand lies
It told to stay weightlessly afloat
In a sea of confusion.

I never heard a woman say
She liked herself.
I heard them say they were ashamed of this,
Or that, or wanted rid of something else.
I never said I liked myself, either.

My mind tries to bring the light of summer back
By running the pitch black film reel over and over
And over and over in an effort to understand it
And move on,
While my heart pounds in my chest
Like the linnet bird’s wings
As it tries to keep me grounded;

My fingers tremble, sweat, fumble
As they reach out to you.
I, shaking, shuffle through the forest at dusk,
Knowing the path is here, somewhere.

The Spider's Mind

Last night I saved a spider’s life,
Yet, in his eyes, I’m Miss Bad Guy.
I cornered him, forced him onto a palm
That could crush him in a moment’s calm -
Perched on his safe spot, in the door’s hinge:
Scared of the monster who’s eyes were on him,
He did not realise that if I had not seen,
Opening the door, I’d have crushed him, easily.
If I hadn’t seen him, moved him, saved him,
He’d never have seen this morning sun,
Yet he was afraid of me, all the same:
In his mind, I take the blame.


Words desert me.
Rain surrounds me.
The cold is within me, branching out.
Freezing the ground, the streams.
Killing the flowers.
Killing you.
Yes, I’m killing you.
Slowly, painlessly.
I regret the words I say to you.
The things you know, you should not know;
No one should.
It is my pain, my cross to bear.
But I cannot tell you.
Drunken slurs in the dark reveal me to you
In a way that my smile and my eyes do not.
You turned away to sleep.
Good. Sleep. Forget.
Don’t let it seep back in.
Don’t let me haunt you.


Your innermost fears, your darkest desires
Are sins.
You should not feel the way you do.
You should not do the things you want to.
Bury them.
Hide them deep down.
Take out a shovel in the dead of night and dig.
Dig. Dig. Dig,
Until you’ve made a hole deep enough for every single
Thought you weren’t supposed to have.
Don’t let your neighbours see as you
Bury them.
Then you can be normal.
Then society will accept you.
A society full of houses with mounds in their back gardens.
Where every single person has been out in the dead of night,
Dark sides of ourselves we try to kill.
But that makes them stronger:
The allure of the taboo.
The need for what is not allowed us.
Desire takes over, and stumbles upon our secret places.
We let them into the places no one else sees.
We know it is pointless to
Bury them.
We indulge ourselves in harrowing
Feelings of guilt for all these things
Normal people don’t feel.
Face the truth, kid:
Society will never accept you.
Society doesn’t accept itself.
Society doesn’t want you to be human.

Trying To Understand Sylvia Plath

Slyvia Plath once wrote a poem called Daddy,
And although you aren’t as bad a person as it seems he was,
I’d like to be able to do what she did and kill you,
I’d like to have the strength to pick up that gun.
Of course, Plath was talking metaphorically,
Her daddy was already dead, had been for years,
You’re not dead and when I’m through you’ll still be breathing,
I just want one less reason for my tears.
I want to be able to say goodbye
And walk away from these skeletons you gave me
Just kill the space you hold in my soul,
Like a private exorcism to make me, me.
Because you’ve hurt me many too many times,
And that’s not what a dad’s supposed to do.
All the stability you’ve tried to give me:
You do not do, you do not do.
I don’t think you realise that in your presence I’ve been
Hardly daring to breathe or Achoo.
I wonder what you’d do
If you knew
I have always been scared of you.
I’d like to be able to say I’d had enough.
I’d like to be able to say what Sylvia Plath said:
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.

Sometimes, I bring things on myself.

I found my hopes in the future,
Though the future may look bleak.
I dream about tomorrow,
Though first I must get through the week.
The present is less than appetising,
And it seems that will never change,
But my dreams are much bigger than this little town,
And roam far away from this cage.

There’s something very beautiful
Nestled within a storm.
And there’s something decidedly ugly
In the sights over which people fawn.
All I need do is break away,
Though I do not realise.
I’m a pebble caught underneath a vast rock,
Yet I could get out if I tried.

Here’s a song for the friends I never see,
The ones who used to be a big part of me;
I saw you everyday, you knew my every dream,
And now our distance pulls at every seam.
Don’t ever you think I forgot about you,
That I never spare you a thought or two,
Because I miss you all more than words can say,
And I hope you know you aren’t the ones to blame
For the words unsaid and the days gone by
Since we last saw each other, even just to say hi
Because it’s me, what I do, I move on, I drift through,
But it saddens me to think that I moved on from you.
I won’t name you all, as it’s with guilt I say
There’s too many of you to call in a day
For a half hour chat about where you are now,
Or to fit in this verse, these few lines about how
I wish, everyday, that I’d given more time,
To maintaining those friendships that make life worthwhile.
But this verse is here just to tell you
I’m closer than you think is true.

I tried to be her.

I escaped from myself.
All that’s left is the catch
In my throat: nicotine
And a stale smoky smell.

For a time, it was good:
Drunken nights, daytime sleep.
I was her: that one girl
I had wanted to be.

Did I care? Give a shit?
I would like to think not.
But the truth is I’m not
Her and she isn’t me.

Every shot that I downed
Stole a part of my soul
Which left me, when sober,
Empty, void.

But I severed my head
Form the clouds it so loved
And stapled my feet
Back onto the ground.

Now when I go back to
Those places I lost me in
I go there to find all
Those pieces I dropped.

I’m putting myself back together.

Losing myself: All I ask of Grief

All I ask of Grief is that
It lets me pick the time.
When I walk to meetings I
Do not want to be overcome
By pain so raw I have to stop
And stand still for a while.
No, please, Grief: let me pick the time.

I want to see songbirds of youth,
And endless summer days.
I do not want to lie in bed
Not wanting to wake up this day.

But once Grief takes a hold of you
It never will let go.
So when these feelings
Of sheer heart-wrenching cries to
A God that does not exist
Take over your fragile frame…
Well, somehow, somewhere, you just…

Have to learn to deal.


The pills don’t take the pain.
When you shit them out hours later
That’s the normal that leaves.
You’re left with the problem you can’t fix.

They’re the short-life easy fix crash diet
But the pain is not the problem.
It is the effect that affects, the result that causes.
A vicious cycle of you, making yourself worse.

They told you it was your fault:
You did this to yourself, unknowingly,
And that’s the funniest part, isn’t it?
That if you’d lived a normal life,
Not compensated for the hurt that, then,
Was more of an inconvenience,
Then now, three years down the line,
You’d be able to sleep at night.

One of Those Bloody Days

Porridge with Nutella — a bit too much
Of both or of one? Whichever
It was made me nauseous. A great
Start to the day. Somewhere
Between the cocodamol and the first cigarette
A migraine took over, feverish
And avoiding bright lights I fell
Back into a deep sleep
To be awoken by a phone call:
My father, stepmother, and the unborn
After a trip to the midwife.
A Borrower-sized boy is inside her,
Feeding off her blood supply.
A lecture by a woman I hate
On a book that I love: Heart of Darkness,
Followed by a meeting
Accompanied by over-priced soup
And a bored, careless look
On the face of one. Dates set.
Then home, to work I never did
In the end. I should have done.
Before I knew it, out again,
To a lecture in the form
Of an interview: a poet and a lecturer,
And a battle of power, of ideals,
Of wits. He stared at the ceiling
Whilst swallowing back laughter.
To the cash machine to be told
I had insufficient funds. I’ll eat later.
The house search didn’t last long.
One left. They’ll get back to us,
Apparently. Then tea time, when I,
Unknowingly, tried to breathe bolognese.
My windpipes did not see this
As a good idea. The nausea returned.
The dizziness stayed away,
But I was not well enough
For my last commitment of the day:
A radio show on the student station.

So I wrote a rubbish poem
Instead, thinking that
I should have stayed in bed.


She stared up to the stars
Every time the wheels turned beneath her
While she sat in a tin can
And lights and streets and towns flew by.

They were her only constant.
They were our only constant.
Orion was the first one she learnt to spot.
Orion was the first one we invented.
Six short, fleeting years ago.
Six thousand long years ago.

When she would sit and wonder
About the first person who ever stared at the nights’ sky,
It always made her feel so wholly insignificant
And so ridiculously infinite
At the same time.

Why Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

in that moment
that very moment when you and i
are face to face
or back to back
or even just in the same room
i am your present
we occupy the same
space and time
in all dimensions
but if that moment
lasts longer than just a moment
i become a part of your past
that is what i am
rapidly I shrink from you
when I am not there
until the moment when we
are face to face
or back to back
or even just in the same room
once again.

Now, I am your present
Though you are not mine.
Scroll past, when you have read to the end,
And I am your past.

9 Things I Hate About You.

I hate it when you act like them,
Not comfortable with you.
I hate the way you pay guitar,
When what I want to hear is you.
I hate that you’re so far away,
And don’t always put in the time.
I hate it that you never say
What’s really on your mind.
I hate your mum and dad because
They see you everyday.
I hate that when we see each other,
I can never stay.
I hate the days when we don’t speak,
Hate when you let me down,
But I guess the thing I hate the most,
The thing I never admit,
Is the fact that I need you around.

Each night, the sun, she fades,
She sinks in sunset’s glow:
It speaks her one promise:
To rise when morning comes.

And how she never fails!
She never lets us down.
She knows how we rely
On her light and her warmth.

She stays true to her word
Each night without a fail.
In her I trust more than
The closest friend I’ve had.

Her love for us is strong,
She’d hate to let us fall.
Yet you can’t follow through
With a simple phone call.

Yes, You Make Me Happy. Although Your Lack Of Belief In Yourself Occasionally Annoys Me.

Heat of the summer’s sun
Fresh on my back.
Smell of coffee in the afternoon:
The morning always came too soon.
My troubadour, I’ll sing for you,
Because you ask.

I departed with summer,
Rain poured.
Questions arose I never wanted to ask
Was either of us up for the task?
I persevered, I saw it through,
And though you let me down,
I stood by you.

Then came the snow,
Not much of it.
The sun shone more than anything:
More than it’d done before, I think.
I felt closer to you, than I ever knew
Was possible.

I don’t believe the future’s ever clear,
But to answer your question, the one you never asked:
I smile most times I hear
From you: You don’t even have to be near.

Does it make me a bad person that the thing I love most about this piece is its imagery, because I know the person it’s about doesn’t like it when writers don’t say exactly what they mean? :P
Oh, and sorry it’s been so long since my last posted poem, for anyone who cares, I’ve written a few I don’t really want to share…

My Writing

I think it’s time I let you all in on a little truth:
When I put pen to paper, I’m not thinking of you.
In complete honesty I’m not thinking of much at all;
Just each sentence as they come, I don’t even plan how they’ll fall.
The finished piece may seem to be about someone
I know, maybe love, and occasionally that’s spot on,
But this is me saying that’s not how they’re planned
More often than not there’s a fictional land
That’s called to me, beckoning, asked me to write
A piece or two explaining how it might
Have felt to be them or to feel how they did:
It’s a solitary journey to the inside of my head;
Especially seeing as the places I go
Are often places I thought up long ago.
And the people I write of went through so many things,
That often what they did relates to how I feel,
So I’ll write of them more, because it helps me to do
The right thing in life, knowing how I made them pull through.