I’ve Sold You My Soul

With this book
I’ve sold you my soul
Put myself on display
Showing you my whole

Here
Do you see the hole?
What was left
After my father’s toll
A prostitution of pain
A sympathy payroll

Here
Do you see the hole?
What was left
After her thoughtless console
A pitiful attempt
To reclaim what he stole

I wrote this for me
There’s no other goal
Love it or hate it
Fuck you all

No
Not you dear reader
Just those close to me
Those who chose to troll
Those who attempted to control
Those who don’t know me at all

No
For you I extol
The healing granted
By planting the flag pole
Open your mind to gaze upon your soul
Write
Take back control
Step through the keyhole
Put it on the page
And remake yourself
Into a stronger whole

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

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The Knife Of Hypocrisy

The knife of hypocrisy
Cuts deep
My shadow’s blood
Leaks
Painting an already ruined floor

The boat’s mooring
Has come undone
Now we drift
Upon the whims of a moon
Covered by cloud

The dehydrated man
Dares not drink
Because he knows
He cannot swim

The monkey
Rages in the cage
He created for himself

The ant
Toils with its fellows
Oblivious of the destruction
Left in the wake
Of their queen’s rage

I write
Words on a page
Knowing they will never be understood
By those
Who inspired them

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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.

Memory Violation

Brain oscillation,
No concentration,
Thought invasion,
Constant rumination,
Memory violation,
Past commiseration,
Unwanted stimulation,
Apologetic compensation,
Fleeting determination,
Hypocritical deliberation,
Personality creation,
False presentation,
Total ostentation,
Needing defibrillation.

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This poem is from the book, ‘Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly’.

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Writing Therapy

Writing Therapy.

Just words on a page,
Or something more?

The page listens,
The page absorbs,
The page doesn’t judge.

The page can be discarded,
The page can be shared,
The page can be reread.

The act of writing heals.

It pulls the demons out.
It exposes them to the light.
It reveals them for what they are.

Fabrication.
Rumination.
Improbability.
Regret.

The act of writing instructs.

It informs our current state.
Shows our inner workings.
Forces us to be precise.

After writing comes the review.
By looking back we see the truth.

Of how far we’ve come.
Of our varied and ever changing moods.
Of different aspects of ourselves.

We see that we are more complex than our current mental state can possibly comprehend.

So write.

Write without judgement. Without pause for grammar or spelling. Without thoughts of what is appropriate or right. Without care for its readability. Without concern for the judgement of others.

It is the act of writing that counts, not the quality that you produce.

No one has to see it.

So just write.

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This poem is from the book Reflections of the Self, The Poetry, Insights, and Wisdom Of Silence.

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Flashback

There’s nowhere you can run to,
Nowhere you can hide,
Not when your problems
Are coming from inside.

You cannot escape them,
You cannot leave,
Now that blood is
Running down your sleeve.

Don’t try to face me,
Don’t try to hide,
Mummy, Daddy,
Why weren’t you by my side?

Do I want to sober up,
Or do I want to die?
Blank memories. Pain.
Watching his hand touch up my thigh.

I couldn’t say no,
I couldn’t flee,
Nothing I tried
Broke his hold of me.

Years have passed,
But his grip remains,
He took my body,
My soul, my brains.

So now I’m sitting here,
Stoned and alone,
Trying to remember
If I have ever felt at home.

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This poem is from the book, ‘Words On A Page’

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