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.





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.





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.