Another as the Same

What’s the difference?

Another empty poem, thrown into the bottomless pit of useless creativity

I wouldn’t be surprised if I withered away here, right here, looming over a blank page.

Why do I do it?

I know my fate, I know how this will end, so, why?

Why do I do it?

There’s plenty more artists out there and they possess the same hunger as I, except they also harbour a talent

what a word! Talent.

To harbour a talent

I dream of that, that one word

that one word that seems to tie everything together neatly


that’s what we all want to have but few actually do

so, why do I do it?

What’s the difference?

Another depressed poet screaming into the void of their own thoughts and expecting a reply-

I guess the ego will never leave.


Boxed Open

There’s nothing in this world


nothing for me, at least

it’s not like I’m bothered…

no bother, they’ll be other-

others tell me, they tell me I should feel content

content with the weight of my passing breath

content in the knowledge that I am “something”

but aren’t we all “something”?

Don’t we all breathe?

There’s nothing, nothing in this world that calls to me

that reaches out its arms

and it’s sad-

they all say, it’s sad as though at any second the tears will spring to my cheeks

it’s not sad, it’s the reality I find myself within and it’s not-

I’m tired of talking

tired of trying to explain

I don’t have to explain anything

this world, it offers me nothing

there’s nothing in this world, nothing

nothing that will allow me shelter

but I don’t care, I prefer the cold anyway.

The Industry

What are we waiting for?

What am I waiting for?

Someone to say yes?

For the rejections to loosen their grip and allow praise an hour of its time?

What are you waiting for?

For someone to listen?

We all want someone to listen

but unfortunately

no one wants to listen

except perhaps our mothers


what to do?

We could sit here and wait

many have done that

they waited for god knows how long

they waited


we could just give up

call it a day?

We can joke

we can nugget it under our breath

but that

that’s no real option

this need

this burning sensation that rests in the pits of our stomachs

that’s what’s real

nothing else

no rejections

no amount of praise


nothing could soothe the burn that sleeps within us.

Bed Retreat

The emptiness that woke me today

was an emptiness unlike any other



My bedroom window was hanging open

the breeze rolling in

and opposite

there stood a tree

an old oak tree

and it was waving

each of its arms were waving

pointing at me

and I started to wave back!

I really did!

It was pleasant

for however long it was

it was pleasant

but the emptiness that woke me today

what a vile sensation

like ants crawling up the inside of my leg

I can’t rid myself of it

and I don’t think I have the capacity to even try


to live like this

breathe like this

waving at trees from my bolted window

the faces staring up




If I could just-


eyes closed







too many words

I used to be good

I did

I used to have passion

I did

and I even woke up early to see the sun rise

and I would write

I would write

the important thing about being a writer is that you write

and I did

for awhile

words fell from my fingertips


it was magic

but now

now there’s too many words

my brain’s constantly fighting to push a sentence out



nothing’s coming out

is this what writer’s block feels like?

Don’t you have to write in order to experience a block?

I don’t know

I don’t know anything anymore

and it feels good to say it aloud

to an empty room



but someone must be listening.

The Fly on the Floor

I can’t concentrate

how many times have I said that?


countlessly waiting for something

without doing anything

I almost hope the creativity will be flung into my arms

an unwanted baby crying for its mother

I’m the mother

the nurturer

how appealing

but my concentration-


it’s slipping

I’m falling

falling into something

something I don’t recognise


maybe I’m onto something?

How many times have I said that?

Too many to count

I’m onto something

I’m onto something-

I am something

could it be?

Probably not


I can’t concentrate

perhaps I’ll never be able to

how appealing

to do nothing

whilst expecting everything.

Who knows what I’ll be

I certainly don’t.

Pearl Grey

The pearls dangle around her neck

drape through her fingers

hang from her ears

no matter where they are, the dream always starts the same

with her

with me, watching her

pearls dangling from her neck

pearls dragging across the floor

my bare feet walking on a carpet made of stones

there, that’s the dream

but she

she’s always there, waiting for me

pearls draped through the cracks in her fingers

pearls so bright, my reflection stares back

back into nothing

back into her eyes

but are they eyes?

They look more like pools of black

swirling pools of black

and I want to stare, I really do

I want to stare

I want to look into her soul

but I’m afraid there’s nothing there

nothing but emptiness

empty pools of black

so, I look away

I look away from the blank canvas of yesterday’s memory

as the pearls glimmer, winking in surprise

surprise at my foolishness.