Do you think you’re crazy?

I think I might be.

What do you think crazy is? Are you crazy if you aren’t normal? I don’t think that is what makes a person crazy. I don’t think normal exists. Normal is an abstract ideal that is completely unattainable. It is a form of control. The normal is something that people believe they want to be, and in their aspiration for the normal they completely ignore most of what exists. I don’t know what exists. But I know the normal does not.

But alas, I do believe I am crazy.

Do you look at your past and see shame and regret and blackness and nothing else? I do. When you picture those closest to you, what do you see? I see the slight twitch in their face that occurred when I said something that hurt them, or when they were puzzled by my demeanour. I see them when they are angry. I see them when they are sad. I see them when they are in pain. I see the harshness of their lives. I see how I hinder them. I see the bad parts of everything and everyone. I feel the bad parts of everything and everyone.

I see myself as baggage.

Do you think about the future? I do. I see pain and suffering that hasn’t happened yet. I see an extension of the disappointment I feel in the present.

Do you feel pride? Have you been proud before? Is that a thing? Is that a real thing? The only thing I ever thought I felt pride in is now a memory buried beneath every thing I could have done better in those moments, every missed opportunity to help. Every word I left unsaid and every impure thought I had.

Sometimes I hear the word happiness and a strange, thick darkness consumes my imagination. I am not sure if happiness is a real thing, but I know what people mean when they use that word. It still brings darkness to my mind. I don’t know the happiness.

Many times a day I imagine myself putting a tie around my neck, tying the long end of it to the doorknob and slowly sitting down, eventually losing consciousness and the ability to relieve my neck of my body weight. Do you ever think about that? Have you ever thought about that?

Is that normal?

I lay down each night with the relief of someone who has finished a marathon, because I got through today, and I don’t have to pretend for the next eight hours.

When you smile, does the word “lie” flash across your mind?

Are you nervous to see your friends? Do you believe, deep down, that everyone close to you hates you? Do you wonder how they could possibly not?

I do.

I always have.

Do you think I am crazy?

I am a failure. I will be a failure until the day I die. This will be the case regardless of what I achieve henceforth, because I have wasted almost 25 years of life being ashamed, being worried, feeling worthless, feeling small. I have spat in the face of my youth and I will never get it back. Do you feel like that?

Do you feel that you are a stain you can’t wipe off of yourself?

What do you feel you have to offer?

I can offer irritation. I can offer a bleak outlook. I offer dry humour that thinly veils my complete and utter lack of self-esteem. It is not enough.

Do you confront yourself with violent rage every time your mouth shuts in conversation? Every time you see a mirror? Every time you feel sad? I hate myself for writing this.

Isn’t it ever so self-indulgent?

But I am just asking a question. Do you relate?

Does anyone?

Does it matter if you do?

If you feel my pain, is that a good thing? Is that encouraging?

I think I am unworthy of love. I see not why someone would love me. My luck with love ran out, and that was my fault too. Love is probably not real anyway. What I identified in myself, as love, was probably a form of desperation. Of a clawing insecurity begging to be comforted. To be saved. And so I loved. Ever so deeply, because I needed someone to care enough to stay, and I knew they would not…




Up until about an hour ago I had not posted a poem on wordpress for over month. There are a lot of reasons as to why but for the most part I just couldn’t write anything at all. No stories. No lyrics. No poems. It was unpleasant to say the least… All I can say is that I am so happy to have been sitting here writing for the past two hours without having to think much at all. It has made me take this moment to stop and appreciate the sanctuary that writing truly is for me. Somewhere to go when everything else is completely chaotic and negative. This is my happy place, even when I am writing about sadness… Thanks for reading.



The Grind.

I lost myself.

To the daily grind.

Not the one of work,

But the one in my mind.

With thoughts in circles

And loops

And knots.

When my psyche gets going

It’s hard to stop.

I hate myself,

I swear that it’s true.

I hate everyone.

I even hate you.

But such strong hate,

Just can’t be sustained.

And thus you see me,

Going insane.

I’m moving through life

In this darkened cavity

Where my heart and my brain

And my soul ought to be.

But they’ve disappeared

To me this is clear,

My confidence replaced

By bitterness and fear.

I’m swinging and swaying

And dancing in the air.

Finally I’m free

Without a care.

When you look to me next.

I will not be there.

Maybe I’ll see you

Some time again.

Maybe next time

I’ll just use the pen.



Pills and a Promise.

As someone who has been prescribed medication for mental illness, I often contemplate the eagerness of people these days to resort straight to medication for all manner of mental health difficulties. I disagree with this approach, and I think that people just seem to be looking for the quick “fix” but not actually addressing the real problem. If you don’t like your face, and you put a mask over it, your face is still there. Mental health issues stem from deep seeded problems and until they are looked into, I personally don’t think they will be solved. I am not saying that medications are fundamentally wrong or that people who take them are likewise. I just don’t think they should be used as the first and only option for treatment. I also am not trying to imply that they are prescribed in this way in all cases.



Have this pill.

See how it makes

things better for you.

Watch as it brightens

up your whole day,

and alters your mind

in every way.

See if you’re yourself

after i’m through

Prescribing this happiness

from me to you.





Wrote this one as a response to Don Charisma’s prompt


Take a journey to my heart,

Tell me what you find.

I wonder of a connection

Between that muscle

And my mind.

And all these emotions

That keep swirling ‘round,

I wonder if an answer

In my heart

Can be found.

My heart is not just my own,

But belongs to all I’ve known.

Everyone who’s been there

And influenced me

As I’ve grown.

The ones who’ve made me happy,

The ones who’ve caused despair.

Deep inside my heart

A place for them always there.





Skeletons, closets,


I have a few.

I know I have secrets,

But what about you?

What do you have


Behind your eyes?

How do you deal

With all of your lies?

Would you bury them all

If you could?

Cast them aside

Gone for good?

I wouldn’t.

If you lose your deceptions,

I put it to you,

That you lose large part

Of yourself too.





I have struggled with depression and anxiety for almost as long as I can remember. I’m just starting to learn how to just get on with everything and just persevere and not let it stop me achieving goals. Life’s tough, that’s fine though. Anyway;


A Black Dog named Schmidt.

He follows me ’round.

No matter where I go

He can be found.

I always take him,

Wherever I am.

I just can’t shake him.

He yaps and barks,

And nips at my heels.

Bad memories he brings

On dusty old reels.

The thing about Schmidt

Is he’s not to be cured

I just have to learn

To live with the bastard.




Pouring Hearts.

This poem was inspired by the pointless, repetitive conversation that seem to occur between people when they are drunk. Those conversations you have every time you are at the pub and you see people that you are semi-friends with and you always ask each other the same questions, even though you couldn’t care less what the answers are. drunk people are always more inclined to tell an almost stranger their most personal problems, and this poem has something to do with that too.


Pour out your heart.

Let the words flow.

Pretend like I care,

When we both know

I don’t.

But it feels a bit better

Just to let it all out

Even if my concern

Is in considerable doubt.

But it’s not about me.

You just want to feel better.

So I’ll give you my time,

And maybe a shoulder.