The back pages

that’s where I retreat

to the back pages

where no one seems to care

or read too much into it

where the story’s already been told

the last few words don’t hold as much weight

I love it here

the back pages

they expect nothing

that’s what I love

and it’s ironic really

given that I wrote this on the first page of a new book

but it’s easy to form low expectations.


Pearl Black

My grandmother was a proud woman

and she always wore a long, dangling necklace of pearls

the same pearls that hit me round the face when attempting a hug.

I loved her, I really did.

Saturday’s were my favourite, squashed round the table eating spaghetti bolognese, laughter hearing up the room.

It was bliss, being that naive as to think it could never end

naive to the time that passed each Saturday.

Everyone must die, I know this

everyone must, life would be boring otherwise but…

My grandmother, she did not deserve to die, she deserved to love forever, to have the whole world know her name

and it sounds pathetic

it sounds just like any other rambling poet reaching for the words

but it’s true

it is.

She didn’t deserve to die

she deserved the world

and the world, it deserved her.

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.