The life of a woman

Battered and bruised

The life of my mother,

Too often used.

A life only lived

Halfway to the full.

A woman defeated

By lethargy’s pull.

But the job she has done

In raising her sons

To shape the men

That we have become.

It must be respected,

Full credit is due,

For a lesser person

Would not have pulled through

So thankyou Mum

I truly am proud

To be your son.




Young Love.


In the form of a woman;

She takes my breath,

My tears,

My laugh.

She takes my bones,

My soul,

My heart.

But she too takes my mind,

Turns it to goo.

I never realised

It was so easy to lose.

Now I’m a mess

Angry and sad

Depressed and anxious

Raving mad.

How can she make me

So happy,

So sure,

And then

So glum,

And so insecure?

And all at once

I’m feeling these things,

The twisted emotions

That young love brings.





I wrote this poem as a reflection on the society I see around me, which I am very much a part of. It saddens me to think about how desperately we all try to be like others. Being yourself has been demonised and as a result I feel that a large portion of people (especially the youth) are striving for an artificial reality. Likes and follows are the encouraging force of the day and if you don’t look and act and speak a certain way, you will find yourself falling behind your peers. We are bombarded with false idols and unrealistic images of what human beings are supposed to be. Just try to figure out who you are, don’t look for validation in the wrong places, and do as much of what makes you happy as possible. For me, writing is the driving force of my happiness, and I post these poems as a means to express myself to the world, but not for the world to validate. If you like them, great. If you don’t, that’s sweet too.



We are all after the plastic.

We don’t want what’s real.

We want to live this life

Unable to feel.


You don’t want soft,

You don’t want vulnerable.

You’re chasing something

Much less malleable.


We are looking for perfection

Without a point of difference.

We want a carbon copy

Of what’s on the screen.


You like the mould,

That you can’t fit.

You want it so badly

You’ll die for it.


What makes you yourself,

Is fading away.

You’re more like them

Every day.





Wisdom 1

The wise have fought
And they have lost.
The wise, like you,
Have paid the cost.
The wise have fear
In darkest night,
The wise have too
Succumbed to fright.
The wise have weakness,
Like anyone else
The wise lose faith,
Within themselves
The wise too, have imperfection
The wise also crave affection.
The wise have argued
When they’ve been wrong,
What makes them wise
Is not what they’ve done.
But what they learn
That spurs them on.
Knowledge comes not
From being right,
But learning from friend
And foe alike.
Wisdom is born from
Pain and struggle,
From knowing you can’t
Just solve the puzzle.





I can’t talk

I can’t speak

Communication: weak.

Social skills

Reduced to a minimum.


Wonder what it was

That caused the recluse

No desire to meet anyone new.

Block my ears

Look to the ground

Avoid everyone else around.


I don’t want to know you

I don’t need you

If you knew me

I’d have to care for you.


Not for me

My speech is not free.

Alone in crowded rooms

I hope I’m just a ghost to you.


Lack of motivation?

Damaged foundations?

No means

No ends

No contact

No friends.


The minds a lot

My mind’s enough.

I don’t need them

To build me up.

I’m safer in solitude

What separates me from you.


To see them from the other side

Unaffected by their petty lies.


Abandoned me

What can contentment

Truly be?