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.




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.




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.