Sad Zac is Sad

Sad Zac is sad
He’s feeling bad
He’s feeling like he’s been had
That the times he was glad
And feeling rad
Were in fact just a fad

As a wee lad
Sad Zac couldn’t relate to any comrade
He was bullied by Chad
Crying, he asked advice from his dad
‘Just punch his face a tad’
Lesson learnt, fists make a nomad
Add one tick to the notepad
No one approaches the battle clad
No one threatens the mad

Sad Zac is sad
Remembering his dad
Remembering him before he was mad
Rereading the notepad
Reminiscing of the success had
Ruminating on his advice to play mad
And embodying it as a personality pad

Sad Zac now fears the nomad
And trains daily for a fight he’s not yet had
Fear of the footpad wielding a doodad
Has grown into fear of every comrade
‘Where is the rest of the advice, dad?’
‘How can I avoid also going mad?’
‘What can I do to stay feeling glad?’
‘Who can I turn to now that you’re just a notepad?’

Sad Zac is still sad
But also a tad glad
Because putting these thoughts on this notepad
Has alleviated some of the mad
He still feels bad
But writing has healed some of his inner lad

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This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.

Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.

Dad

What thoughts
Are confined
In the vault
Of your mind?

Why
Don’t you speak
And share
What you think?

I don’t know
Who you are
Beyond what
I can see

And what I can see
Is that you
Clearly
Have no time for me

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This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.

Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.

I Fear Your Apology

What would you like from me?
What would you like to see?

Perhaps the perfect child for me to be?
Or perfection for me to embody?
Or for me to be on my knees and plea?
Or perhaps a sign of glee for every statement you decree?

If I were older,
I would flee.

I long to be carefree. Instead I’m stuck, as a perpetual draftee, with the esprit, of one who can foresee with accuracy how the future will play out under your marquee.

I fear your anger spree.
I fear your birch tree.
I fear your apology.

I fear your beastly personality, screaming ‘let me’, while spittle oozes down your goatee.

So,
with everything you warrantee,
this little pee wee is forced to agree.
Forced to embody the inner nobody,
mute the enquiry,
deny the depths of reality,
and become your humble devotee.

Here,
I made you some tea. Just as you like it, with the perfect amount of honey.

Would you like anything else from me?

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This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.

Read more from the colleciton, download a free copy, or purchase as a Paperback, eBook, Hardcover or Audiobook.