This poetry site used to mean
Quite a lot to me,
But recently all that I've seen
Is not what used to be.

Perhaps this site is dying,
Like the fragment of my soul,
Which has given up with trying
To love this unpoetic hole.

"Five–O-two, Bad gateway"
Is mostly what I read,
And the same **** poems every day
Appearing on my feed.

This used to be a lovely place
To connect and to explore,
But now I accept it's lost it's grace,
And this site's done for, for sure.

I hope in time they'll fix it,
And this site will be restored,
But, 'till then, I will not risk it;
So I'll leave on my own accord.

Breeze flowing gently;
The waterfall cascades down;
I feel at peace here.

Sometimes I stop just short
Of writing a poem, and write
A confession instead.
Then I realise what I thought
Were only harmless words just might
Be better left unsaid.

Facta non verba is what we need,
Verba non facta is all that's received,
If you want to be a part of what is achieved,
Put away your kind words and help spread some good deeds.

If you cannot be bothered to sift through the ****
You don't like, then there's no sympathy, not a bit,
That you get as you announce such pompous airs,
Declaring your work to be better than theirs,
When clearly it's not, and your criticism fails,
To amount to much more than an infants wails.
O maybe, just maybe, if I saw you had written,
Something worthwhile yourself then all would be forgiven,
Talent aside, if you'd chosen to write
Something constructive, instead of such trite,
Then the words that you said on deaf ears wouldn't fall,
But that's not the case so they're worth ****** all,
So next time you see someone's work you don't like,
Before you comment, here's a tip - learn to write.

The Big Poetry Collection

https://www.facebook.com/groups/661273472100151/?ref=share

Talking about our feelings
Can benefit our mental health
And, with that in mind, I'd like to say;
Anxiety can **** itself.

It sneaks up like a ninja;
It knows the art of stealth,
But I have to teach it new things;
Like how to go and **** itself.

It bothers me with social stuff,
It screams about my wealth,
Until I can simply take no more,
And scream right back; "Go **** yourself!"

It's a nasty little demon!
It's a horrid little elf!
It's the thing I hate the most,
And it needs to go and **** itself.

Yes- talking about our feelings
Can benefit our mental health,
And, with that in mind, I'd like to say;
"Anxiety can **** itself!"

Sometimes I meet,
With art so sweet,
It almost turns me vegan,
A piece of meat,
Could not compete,
With a painting done by Tegan.

Sometimes it seems,
She paints my dreams,
Or as close as anyone can,
If I had to choose,
Between this or *****,
I'd be a sober man.

I'd feel such grief,
With no relief,
If she chose to give up paintin'
And I'd fill the hole,
Inside my soul,
With whiskey and with bacon.

If I could miss you any more I would,
But –truth is– that I also missed myself,
Far more than any other possibly could,
And I needed time to focus on my health.

If you could see inside my mind,
You'd understand why I could not have stayed,
To watch you fawn, and worry, and be kind,
And stay to watch my mind degrade.

Sometimes an absence may be for the best;
A step too far is far worse than a step delayed,
If that was wrong I feared to put it to the test;
A friendship missed is better than a friend betrayed.

There's nothing quite like
Being appreciated
For something that you've done,
When your own words strike
You as overrated,
Childlike and dumb.

On this anopisthographic format,
Seems contradistinguishable
To my previous puerile verses,
Disharmonising against contrivances
To be intelligibly indicated,
Through dimunitive confabulations,
As habitually optated by
My personal preferations.

If there were no edge,
Would you follow me in-
To oblivion?

There is pressure in society
That judges how your looks should be
And when I hear a girl proclaim "I'm fat!"
As though there was something wrong with that,
Such thoughts, I tell you, just won't do
When the opposite is clearly true
Because with big girls there is more to love,
And they won't break with a playful shove.
And although I'm not one for body shaming,
And don't wish to sound like I'm complaining,
Thin girls simply lack the cellulite
To keep somebody warm at night,
Their bones protrude in awkward places
And they have gaunt, unhealthy faces
They regularly seem in a foul mood
(Which is probably caused caused by lack of food),
And you can't get anything to eat
Without them scowling at the treat,
That you, yourself, have chose to order,
While they dine on salad and water,
Until they scream "I've had enough!
You have no idea how tough
It is to keep this slender figure
And stop myself from getting bigger!"
As if it was somehow your fault
That they won't eat sugar or salt,
Or that they'll spend 3 hours at the gym
As a compromise for staying thin.
So while I'd love a girl however she looks
(As long as we like similar books,
And can talk for hours at a time,
Or not at all and still be fine)
There's very few (indeed, if any!
Although their numbers may be many),
Skinny girls I've ever met
That a big one hasn't beaten yet!
If you must lose weight I do implore
You know it's yourself you do it for
And while I must concede it doesn't matter,
To most if you're thinner or fatter,
No songwriter, I'll think you'll find
Wrote a song about a small behind
No artists brush strokes ever found
Joy in painting girls that were not round
And the best words found in poetry
Are about big girls it's plain to see
Like voluptuous, buxom, and well-rounded
With thin girls how would they have sounded?
Although I must- again- make haste to add
That no truly self-respecting lad
Would ever dream of judging you
By how you look, not what you do,
So if shedding pounds makes you feel great
Then go ahead and lose some weight,
But ignore what shallow fools may say,
As they'll just keep judging anyway,
Because the best people, you'll always find,
Will love you for what's in your mind.

Happy birthday; now you're older,
And (since I am growing bolder)
May I ask you include me,
In your will financially?
Or (if your death is premature)
I'd like to ask that you be sure
To at least spend your money well;
Party hard, and raise some hell!
Now granted– I won't wish you ill,
Regardless of what's in your will,
But if the lord your soul doth take,
Can I still have some birthday cake?

I broke my heart into pieces today-
It scattered all over the floor,
My friends stood and stared at me blankly,
And said "what are you doing that for?"

I broke my heart into pieces today-
It seemed like the right thing to do,
I figure now they can cover more distance,
And hope one of those pieces finds you.

I left bits on the train in the subway,
And some beneath shady old trees,
A few dozen in pages of favourite books,
And let a few drift on a breeze.

Yes, I broke my heart into pieces today,
As people gave dumbfounded stares,
I tried to explain to them calmly;
A broken heart's one that still cares,

So I broke my heart into pieces today,
To stop it going withered and black,
Hoping maybe one finds the right person,
Who is capable of loving it back.

I left one of them in this poem,
If you find it, dear reader, take care!
It is capable of loving you fully,
Though it's barely a wisp in the air.

I like to say I am a childrens book writer,
When I'm asked what it is that I do,
Some people say "he's a modest old blighter!
He's written good stuff for adults too."

I'm afraid I must correct what some people view,
As the simplelest past of my work,
So I say "That's correct, I write adult stuff too,"
And then over my face spreads a smirk.

"But my childrens poetry is much better stuff."
(And at this point their eyebrows arise),
"The audience", I tell them, "is far more tough,
They need intrigue, and twists, and surprise,

At every stage of the story, on every page,
To keep them listening from cover to cover,
Otherwise those dear kiddies fly into a rage,
And will start screaming at father and mother.

But adults are far easier to calm with a book,
It's the children's stuff of which I'm proud"
They then tend to fall silent, and give me a look,
As if what I said wasn't allowed.

Some try to argue; "But surely," they say,
"A thick novel is what good writers aspire
To be known for?" but I don't feel that way,
My aspirations are much, much higher.

My OCD is running wild again, causing me to think things
That I really know I shouldn't. The same things over
And over, and I know I can't escape the thoughts in my own mind.

I strain with all my might to put another thought there;
"I need to stop thinking this. I need to stop thinking this",
Like trying not to think of white bears.

Untill the cycle turns to another set of thoughts,
Getting closer to what I desire, but not quite there;
"I need to stop thinking this. I need to stop thinking this."

Knowing I need to stop thinking those thoughts
Becomes a thought in itself, and I know- I just know
They'll bring me to tears if I can't stop them;
"I need to stop thinking this. I need to stop thinking this."

Distractions! That's what I need! Something to stop the mind racing.
Something I can physically do without disturbing everyone else.
Softly I start saying nonsense words to myself;
"Monkeys and aliens. Monkeys and aliens."
Hoping they won't hear me in the next room.

Is it helping yet? No, no! Don't think like that!
It'll only last longer if you think about your progress;
"Monkeys and aliens. I need to stop thinking this."

"Stop talking; I can't concentrate on the words you say,
And it just reminds me that I'm still not okay.
Just give me a moment. Yes, alright then. A coffee. Fine.
Just please, please, stop offering your help.
I need to be able to do this myself."

"Unicorns, dragons and Boggel-de-rumps!"
Yes, yes! That's it! The nonsense poems you wrote
From the days you thought you were happy.
They'll help you out, no doubt!

I whisper the rhymes to myself, slowly calming down
Such joyous, happy, bouncy words!
How could I ever be unhappy with such words around?
Oh yes, that's right, I remember now;
"I need to stop thinking this."

I used to wear tinted glasses to hide my eyes.
I don't just mean every now and again,
But all the time- outside and in.
I'd scrabble for them in the morning,
Groping wildly in the sunrise.

If, by some chance, anyone happened to spy,
In the brief moments I removed them,
And say "What beautiful eyes Mr Finn!
Oh whyever do you hide them?"
I would never tell them why.

But now I don't seem to mind so greatly,
So here's the truth; I downright hated
The way they always looked so **** happy,
Even when I wasn't. I always felt
As though they betrayed me.

It didn't even help when I would frown.
I would practice in the mirror,
Contorting my face into grimaces,
Willing my emotions to be clearer,
But they let me down.

Now that I'm older I don't mind,
And have begun freely accepting
Their emotional misdirection,
Concealing the feelings underneath
To which all others seem blind.

I'm reminded of a MacEwen piece
Since, openly, my eyes conceal the truth;
"What if the whole show was a lie, and it ****** well was,
Would I still lie to you? Of course I would"
If those lies bring you relief.

Don’t get arrested if you’re poor!
There’s no way they’ll let you go!
Privilege just means private law
To those who’re in the know

And if you ever wondered why it seems
The system disregards your self
It’s because you are on separate teams
"The law"’s an anagram of "wealth"

But do not worry, not all’s lost,
You poor demented yob
You can have freedom at a cost
-The freedom of the mob

Oh sure, The mob won’t listen
And doubtless will not care,
But it’s guaranteed admission
To most likely anywhere

But where will the people rally to?
Well, you may think this is funny –
It’s the same place that they always do-
The mob follows the money.

And the people rule the country
The same way as did the few,
But now you cannot blame them
Because "the people" includes you.

Don't do that and don't do this,
The things we're told from birth to death,
But all this life is **** and ****,
And charges you for every breath,

What we drink and what we eat,
What we write and what we make,
Where we go and who we meet,
What we give and what we take,

What we are and what we do,
Unless we choose the pills or knife,
The only choice left we can make,
Is when we choose to end this life.

Don't remember me for what I ain't
When death decides to still my aching heart;
Don't picture me as if I were a saint,
Or treat me diff'rently when I depart.

Recall the good, but don't forget the bad,
And remember that you loved me all the same;
Remember that I sometimes drove you mad,
Or that –sometimes– I was the one to blame.

Don't make me out to be some perfect person,
What never made an error, great or small,
Or else you'll be rememberin' a version
Of me that never existed at all.

There's been a lot of talk amongst the others;
They say you think you're still alive,
And none of them have the heart
To tell you otherwise.

They say you still gasp for air while you're crying,
And that you still believe in pain
And suffering, and they can't help but run to you
When you call another's name.

Which distresses them deeply, and yet
Whilst they no longer understand what you feel,
They see their former selves within your ghost,
And wish your happiness were real.

Endorphins need to be released
In the quest for happiness and peace,
So if you love it let it go
And feel the joy it can bestow

I just had a thought in my head-
"The art of the sonnet's not dead!
And to prove that it's true
I'll write one for you!"
...But then I wrote a limerick instead.

I sometimes wonder
if I were to write the word "gullible"
on the ceiling in cursive script,
how many people would have
enough faith in me
when I told them about it
  to look up.

There's a thin line
between trust and gullibility
and I'd like to think
that none of my friends
would be so gullible
to believe that I was lying
based on the public opinion
  of what I said.

Regardless of what the world
may think of me
with their downcast eyes,
my friends would look above
for the truth in my words
  and smile.

I had a dream last night
Where all the flowers in the prison yard
Had turned full bloom
The reflections from them turned walls bright
'Till I awoke to the cold, hard
Reality of my room

The small magic book that tells
The voices what to say to me
When we're alone
Can't conjure up the words for smells
Nor the sad, sweet beauty
Of missing home

Write a poem, you say,
And give me a subject
About that which you think I should write,
But it don’t work that way,
I’m afraid I must reject
The challenge you set me tonight

For a poem, you see,
Simply cannot be forced,
I can't pluck one out of thin air!
It needs to just be,
And run its due course,
And the writer, of course, needs to care

It’s not that I can’t write,
It’s not that I won’t,
It’s just that these things simply are,
And it seems that tonight
The mood simply don’t
Inspire to take me that far

I can't just decide
When the moment will take me,
And jot down a stanza or two.
I’m not trying to hide,
But you can’t simply make me
Write poems to benefit you.

So that’s why this piece
May not quite be art,
And won’t be remembered in books.
I can’t choose to please
(Wouldn’t know where to start)
You with how my poetry looks.

I suppose what I was looking to achieve at first was to end my pain. It really is as simple as that. Just a rather ****** "**** it! I give up!" sort of feeling. I didn't like myself anymore but neither did I dislike myself either. It's a hard feeling to convey if you've never felt it, although i've never been comfortable with people suggesting I was "numb". "Numb" is how the doctors got me to convey such feelings and no doubt in the confusion of the multiple changes of doctors, nurses and support workers (It was an average of a different doctor every 9-10 days for the first two months), coupled with the no doubt hastily scribbled notes and vast amount of paperwork on me being handed around, it was probably taken literally on a number of occassions (and perhaps, in the official records, still is). It is not, I feel, a good word to describe how I felt.

Everywhere and everything was a source of feeling. I was just sort of balancing it all out in the middle. I'd still have the majority of the days emotions ticking along normally (well, i SAY normal. At the time it was pretty much rage, hatred and severe depression but at least I have words for these!).  I still have no way of accurately conveying what i mean in words but i think the closest way i can get to describing it is to say it is like a sort of emotional version of simutaneously trying not to think of pink elephants whilst trying to turn yourself into a pink elephant and the feeling you get in between not being asleep and waking up. I realise that that's still wholly unaccurate but hopefully it describes things in a way that's at least understandable, although probably still not relatable.

Those feelings changed somewhat after what was my fourth attempt to take my life. Fourth attempt - fourth method of hastily induced death. I had chosen that particular night a large cocktail of drugs consisting of (if memory serves me right) about 20-30 Quietiapine (200mg) (an anti-psychotic i was being trialled on at the time that also induced sleep), roughly 50-60 hydroxzine (25mg) (an anti-anxiety drug which also doubles as an anti-histimine which reduces the nausea experienced by overdosing) and probably in the region of 150 or so co-cadomol (500mg) (a rather strong painkiller).

It seemed I had all I needed to end my life. I walked down to the park at night, sat in the gazebo and started to take the pills with some lucozade. It wasn't exactly a sombre moment but it wasn't like I had anything exactly to be happy about either. It took about half an hour to take all the pills and that was taking them 5-6 at a time. It was like a sodding pill-popping marathon that i couldn't give up untill they were all gone. Then they were all gone and there was nothing left to do but wait.

Only as I was waiting, it happened. The only genuinely life-changing moment I ever had. It was like I could feel myself slipping away and a thought came to me. Words that, for the months preceding that moment, would've caused me to fly into a blind rage, to scream and cry and shout. Words that I had tried rationialising against for what felt like an eternity whenever they were directed at me. Words that from the mouths of doctors filled me with hate, and from friends filled me with tears now came to my mind both as old companions but now, strangely, also as new friends;

                                                              There's nothing more you can achieve...    

                                                               You've done all you can...

                                                               Move on...    

It's not a case of "I don't think i've ever been as happy...". I know i'd never been as happy. So much relief, so much tension in one fell swoop just vanished in the time it took to think a thought. I've experienced crying with happiness before but i sobbed that night. Big wails of happiness that got stuck in my chest if i tried to hold it, tears streaming like a tsunami down my cheeks and just so much happiness that i couldn't contain myself. I wanted to sing and since there was no reason not to i did, songs of freedom, songs that meant the world to me, songs i'd sang as a child, songs i'd made up, songs i was still making up. Imagine every problem with everything just dissapearing instantly. Every thing you've ever been even slightly worried about gone. That's were i was. I was IN THAT WORLD. It didn't matter if it was just in my head. It was real. It was final. It was mine.

Do you ever get the feeling
That you've tried your very best
With self-love and self-healing
But have somehow failed a test?
And realise you were concealing
Something you had left repressed?

As you start to feel that everything
Finally goes your way
And you laugh out loud like your a king
And regret nothing you say
Or do, or write, or feel or sing,
And you think "what a wondrous day!"

Until you look around and realise
Not everyone feels the same
And as you look into their eyes
You feel just a hint of shame
That you've ignored those peoples cries
And feel that you're to blame.

It's not that I'm not happy
with myself- because I am,
But I realise that to feel that way
I must help my fellow man,
Because improving someone else's day
Helps me feel the best I can.

Sometimes I watch the others,
So comfortable in their skins
Of whatever form they've chosen,
Or miraculously been blessed with,
And remain a passive observer
Of the beauty before me.
I view their spirit animal forms,
Alongside the incarnations of gods,
and goddesses, and other holy beings,
Dance across their human flesh.

When viewed closely I can see
The smallest units of infinity
Struggling to expand, sometimes succeeding,
Other times dying and quickly vanishing,
To be suddenly replaced by elements
Of others, or the world around them.
They are cloaked in visions
My words can't comprehend,
Which I have heard some call yugen.

Other times I find myself
Wanting to join in with the excitement;
I flit between the disguises that
I have made for myself, in
An effort to seamlessly fit in
Unzipping one skin as discreetly as possible,
and hastily pulling on the next
As I rush from group to group,
Hoping nobody sees who lies within.

I have no concept of my own beauty.
Mirrors do nothing to help, being
designed to only reflect a physical presence.
I suppose that- to a piece of glass-
An eyebrow is just an eyebrow,
And lips are just lips.

If you could see beneath the reflections
Of your own selves I had tried to create,
I am afraid of what you might see
The bitterness that lies beneath.
My multiple façades sometimes breaks free,
And slowly breaks whoever is before me,
Causing mouths to form wide O's of horror,
Or else silences them completely.

This skin I inhabit is not my home-
I appreciate it's gloriousness and accept,
As I do in others, the meanest emotions it conceals,
And treat it as I would any other. I
Wish it no harm, and would be loath
To abandon it on some distant kerb
Like an unloved pet.

My Celtic forefathers had a word to describe this;
"Hiraeth"- a longing for a home that never was,
Or a place one can only recall in distant
Memories; unrecountable to those who
Never knew of its existence to begin with.

Maybe the skins I wear are part
Of my journey home; pupating like
A moth who longs to search for the light,
Yet lacking the wings to do so.
Perhaps they are only walls of my
Own devising, covering the window
To my own soul, that writhes inside
Like some contorted navel.

All I know is that the parts of you
I have stolen, or borrowed, or bought,
Or acquired through other means
Are the closest to home I have ever been,
Enabling me, in those brief moments,
To view the homes you keep within yourselves,
Until you reach out and touch me,
Causing me to run away, tail between legs,
Before my true self can be seen.

Did you know that dogs
In their natural state
Never bark?
That we gave their sprogs
Such an acquired trait
For a lark?

They would whine and growl
If they were left alone
To be free,
A dog will even howl
But won't bark on its own
Naturally.

"A man is a wolf to another man",
What utter nonsense! What a silly thing to say!
I see no wolf-like qualities in the hearts of men,
No shy, retiring qualities, or unerring loyalty,
And certainly haven't noticed that men ****
Only when absolutely necessary for survival.

Perhaps it is I who am being foolish though?
As I stare deep into the noble eyes of the wolf
And see no hint of malice, or greed,
Or religious and political ideologies,
Or desire for such petty things as man wants.

Yes, indeed! Surely the fault lies with me,
For I am human, and can't begin to understand
Such simple things that those wild beasts can
Seem to so effortlessly comprehend- compassion,
Love, respect, and sense of unity.

Men are not wolves in the eyes of other men. No,
It doesn't describe the potentially ruthless way
We act upon meeting a stranger of our own species.
I wish such accurate statements as this held sway;
Men are like men to other men- **** homini ****
Since we've proof that men will oft rip men to pieces.

Perhaps I am an evil man,
Perhaps I am; I cannot tell;
I try to do the best I can,
But know I do not do it well.

Perhaps there is a space for me
In some unknown corner of hell,
Where hope reigns for eternity,
And nothing ever breaks its spell.

For hope is, when all's said and done,
The worst of things a man can suffer;
It keeps us traipsing, one by one,
From one disaster to another.

Perhaps it's best to just give up;
Immerse myself in a life of sin,
Drink good wine, and raise a cup
To my worst enemy- Nigel Finn.

"How am I feeling?- I think I'm fine,
Or at least not as bad as before
I think that I'm having a wonderful time,
Although I really can't be sure.

If I tell somebody I'm feeling OK
They smile and say; "Is that so?
What's made you feel better today?"
And I mumble; "I don't know."

It makes me question what I say,
And confuses me more and more.
I think that I'm having a wonderful day
Though I really can't be sure.

This is how you write a poem;
First; forget everything
You ever learnt about poems,

                                Such knowledge should be reserved
                                For the minds of critics, and
                                Professors in dusty halls

                                                          ­­           Of universities, where
                                                           ­          They are dissected and re-
                                                             ­        Constructed against their will.

Second; embroil yourself in
Love; it is the only thing
That poetry is born from.

                            Even the saddest songs, and
                            Most bitter lines, are fueled
                            By what we once loved. Loss is

                                                            J­­ust a love that has been lost
                                                            ­­And anger; a love scorned. All
                                                            y­­our words will be born this way.

Thirdly; find a quiet spot;
It doesn't matter much where
As long as it brings comfort,

                             Be it an old desk in a
                             Darkened room, or a field of
                             tall Sunflowers or bluebells,

                                                     ­ ­       Or the last place you saw a
                                                             Loved one, before fate swept them
                                                            ­­ Away to distant valleys.

Next you must make a promise to
Yourself to be brutally
Honest. Only the truth must

                              Be written here. There is no
                              Room for flowery words that
                              Must be thought over to much.

                                                          ­­   If it is true it will be
                                                             Beautiful, and your pen strokes
                                                         ­    Will guide you towards greatness.

Finally, you must hold your
Writing implement of choice
As if it were the most loved

                                 Of possesions, or mighty
                                 Of weapons, or a  child's hand.
                                 I cannot tell you which

                                                          ­­ But you will undoubtedly
                                                     ­      Know which when the time comes. It
                                                           Will strike you as obvious.

Upon following these steps
You will have become a
poet. From now on there

                                Is no turning back. It will
                                Consume you, and thoughts will take
                                You by surprise in lover's

                                                        ­­  Embraces, in sudden deaths,
                                                         ­ Bird songs, and the words of of those
                                                          Y­­ou once thought to be strangers.

Each word will be a gift to
The world, whilst remaining un-
doubtedly yours to own.

                                        Use your power wisely.
                                        Remember; without love
                                        Your poems will start to

                                                             ­        Fall into disrepair
                                                       ­              And, without them you will
                                                            ­­         Lose your capacity to care.

I wish you well.
                                    I wish you poetry.
                                                         ­      ­           I wish you love.

Auden wrote "weep for the lives your wishes never led."
But I think it's better to be happy instead.
Why need I shed tears and feel such regret?
I've the rest of my life to achieve better yet.

I might not be sportsman, I might not be a star,
I may not be rich or drive a flash car,
I may not be known in my own local bar,
But who is to say that I won't travel far?

"Wheat is wheat" Van Gogh once said,
"Even if, at first, like grass it seems."
I've amazing things inside my head,
And I can paint my dreams

And oh, my friends! The things I dream
Would make you laugh and cry
As they focus on the age-old theme;
The persistant question- Why?
Sometimes I'm the cat who's got the cream,
Others; a web entangled fly.

It matters not much what I do,
Much more so what I think,
So to quote the great W.C.Fields;
"I believe I'll have a drink."

We who shuffle seamlessly along history's ****** banks,
And think our lives are pointful, filled up with meaning,
Yet believe prayers are unanswered, and demeaning,
But if they're not, could never offer thanks,
Can feel the horrors we have created just beneath our skin;
Writhing, contorting, causing trembles in our hands,
Over nothing so petty as what some god claims is sin,
And won't be washed clean by the hourglass's sands.

I am strongly convinced that, even if I can
(By some miracle), be absolved by God's forgiveness,
That He has absolutely no **** right to do this,
To steal that from me, and to change what I am.

The thing that keeps people alive
Is often not some miracle cure
Comprised of pills, mysterious vials of liquid,
Or some new psychotherapeutic discovery,
But instead lies in the simple act
Of people not leaving.

Leaving leads to forgetting,
Forgetting leads to not caring,
And, not caring, you will lose
All emotional attachment to what is left.
I have been saved many times by people's not leaving.

I feel, however, it's only fair to note
That if you, my friend, were to leave,
I truly believe you'd be happy.
No need to gloss it over-
Just imagine, for your own sake,
The dreams you could fulfil,
The achievements you could make,
And the places you could go
     Without me.

If you were to leave
But should return before you've forgotten,
I'd like to console you by letting you know,
That I probably died in peace.
No need too dwell on what caused it-
What difference does it really make
If I succumb to depression, or cancer,
Or some unknown cause in my sleep?

I ask for no grand array of flowers at my funeral-
Such displays are best reserved for the living.
Perhaps some bluebells placed over my body though;
The perfect symbol; a small array of beauty,
Just enough to be noticed, achieving nothing in particular,
Heads hung low, no longer able to reach, as they once did, for the sky,
Epitomising the temporary fragility of life
With their easily stomped on, chewed up,
Beaten, and then forgotten little bodies;
They're an epitaph in their own right.

No other physical memorials are needed.
No headstone, no need for anything
To be named after me.
Much easier to cry whatever tears
Need to be cried at that point,
And leave.

If you find the emotional attachment doesn't fade,
And you really feel you need some thing,
Some physical presence to remind you of me,
Then for god's sake don't make it something
That dresses me up as some kind of plaster saint!
Instead choose something more meaningful and lasting
              Like a cardboard box,
                        Or the smell of paint.

Nothing exists except atoms and space,
And everything else is opinion,
Yet we can't determine the time of their place,
And relative distance between 'em.

If I could understand,
With a wave of my hand,
All that is, and what lies in between,
I probably wouldn't,
For fear that I couldn't
Unsee what what I might think obscene.

What if, for example,
I could indeed sample
All knowledge there is to be known?
Would I be enlightened,
Or possibly frightened?
Depressed once all mystery's gone?

If nothing exists except atoms and space,
And if everything else is opinion,
Then surely opinion's mankind's saving grace;
The source of the beauty within 'em

Once upon a time in a happy little land
Was a man who saw bad things
And ever since then this happy little guy
Has been afraid of what tomorrow brings
So the happy little man took a solemn sworn oath
And solemnly swore to change things
But the happy little guy didn’t know what to do
About what tomorrow brings
So the happy little guy tried to try, try, try
But it ended up worse than before
He got annoyed at his friends
Who saw beginnings, not ends
And said “What are you doing this for?”
This made the happy little guy start to cry, cry, cry
Because he didn’t know how to explain
That yesterday felt like the end of his life
And tomorrow brought suffering and pain
So the happy little guy tried to live for today
Although sometimes it didn’t seem worth it
He kept a smile glued to his face most the time
Although inside he was quite far from perfect
Sometimes he fell in a pit of despair
And since his today never ended
He just thought of the who, what, the when and the where
Until all of his thoughts were upended
Upon all the papers that scattered his room
But  still nobody seemed to know why
It wasn’t the yesterday or the tomorrow
But today that caused him to cry
So the happy little guy, with a smile on his face
Carried on living life as it was
And when anyone asked him why he felt disgraced
He’d answer, quite simply; “Because
The moon and the sea do not mean much to me
As they will do what they do anyhow
But the products of human creativity
Will ruin the here and the now
And if I cannot change merely one little thing
That causes such suffering and pain
Then tell me – if I should just walk away
Am I not as much equally to blame?”
The happy little guy got this in reply;
“There’s nothing that CAN be done,
You must let things be as they must be
Even though it’s ******* horrible because it essentially means you’re worthless and are incapable of stopping anything nasty happening to anyone at any time because that’s part of life and you need to stop thinking about it and move on with your life. Your existence is basically pointless unless you keep smiling because no-one cares about horrible things unless they’re affecting them directly.  Can’t you just do something nice to “balance it out”? Because your essentially wasting your life right now and it’s unproductive to everyone around you.”
That’s what he heard at least,
Although he may have been mistaken,
And now he was angry because people had completely ruined his rhyme AND his view of humanity.
What a bunch of *******!

Imagination seems to be
A way to escape reality,
But sometimes- when we're done escaping-
We create the dreams our minds were making

You ask what prison feels like;
Well basically, you see,
It's mostly just a bunch of rules
About where you should be,
And quite a lot of it's the same
As the things you do whilst "free".

It's about showing scraps of paper
If you want to travel far
(Much like passports), shown to men
Who don't know who you are.
(I know describing the next wing
As "far" may seem bizarre).

Then there's other scraps of paper,
Which decide what you should earn.
You get them by completing courses,
This encourages you to "learn",
And then you blow your weekly wages
On tobacco ("smokes" or "burn")

Which you can trade amongst the cellmates,
(Despite a watchful eye),
For illicit goods, or lend it out
And double your supply,
And all these things convinced me
You're just as free as I

It's just a case of space and time;
I can still pursue my art.
Whether or not you're caught for crime,
Freedom's only in your heart.
(And if you don't believe me read this rhyme
Again, back from the start.)

I'd like to ask a question; what's your favourite quote?
Is it from a famous book, or is it something that you wrote?
Are they words from a close friend, or a speech by JFK?
My words have all dried up- can I have some of yours today?

It doesn't matter who said what, or if I'll understand
Why such words are important, if they're witty, humble, grand,
Or fill you up with hope when you're starting to feel low.
Perhaps I'll steal some inspiration, so please share- I'd love to know!
(I'm serious- leave your favourites in the comments box below.)

With a pocketful of medicine,
And an optimistic air,
I set out to cure the world.

I had no idea, when I first set out,
Just how far my journey would take me.
I had dreams of dragons,
Heroic battles, and the vast expanse
Of the seemingly endless sea
Racing through my mind.

My friends, not knowing the true
Reason for my adventurous ways,
At first tried to discourage me;
Convincing me that to help myself;
To put myself above all others,
Would be, if not nobler,
Then at least more sensible.

Ah! My friends! Did you not realise,
That you were just encouraging
My foolish deeds more so?
For me, true happiness lies
In the smiles of others, and
The joys I inspire.

I find no pride in accomplishing
Deeds that fulfill other needs;
Diplomas and job offers
Sail over my head, and I
Pay them no heed.

Such accomplishments should be
Left (in my opinion), to kings,
And emperors, and others
Who I pay little regard to,
Who find such happiness
At receiving a scrap of paper
With not a jot of poetry on it.

I remain of the servile class.
By my own admission and actions,
I shun those who would have me
Believe that my past life,
The one in which I ruled,
If not the world, than at least
The part of it I so ignorantly knew,
Was a happier one.

So far there have been no dragons,
Save for the ones I carry with me
In my imagination,
The heroic battles I fought
Have been with no-one but myself,
In the recesses of my mind,
And the vastness of the ocean,
Carries itself, past the distant shore,
And into the hearts of those I love.

As I reach into my pocket,
I find the goods I carry to be
No more than sugar pills-
A placebo of the mind, that
I am told is good for nothing
By learned physicians, who know
Far more on the subject than I.

Thus I find myself in this foreign land,
With nothing but my optimistic air
To see me through.
I wish no more than to lend my hand,
And show others that I care.
Tell me; Is that a placebo too?

No.
No it is not.
Never do that.

Last night I sat down in the street
And played a game of chess
With a homeless man I chanced to meet
Near my old Cambridge address,
And thoughts of victory or defeat
Mattered little (perhaps less).

The only thing I cared to gain
Was this mans company,
And I found it quite hard to contain
That it meant the world to me.
(Was it silly of me to refrain,
Since it filled my heart with glee?)

I won the game and thanked the man,
But as I walked away
I knew I didn't have a plan,
And felt the urge to stay,
But the next game had just began-
"Hello sir! Want to play?"

I wandered aimless through the night
Not feeling quite the same.
I cried, as though I thought it might
Help wash away the shame,
Untill a voice helped ease my plight;
"Would you like another game?"

A gallant knight he seemed that night;
A castle until dawn.
Whilst bishops hold religion tight
To tell us right from wrong,
And kings and queens provoke the fight
The pawn protects the pawn.

I wrote a poem, just for you,
Wrought out of pain and tears.
You took the pain, and wrote one too;
It multiplied our fears.

I wrote a poem, filled with joy,
And gave you that as well.
You wrote one too, and helped destroy
Our paranoia's spell.

My poetry has no consistent theme,
Or single writing style,
I simply jot down what I dream
Every once in a while.

I appreciate the daily sight
Of words someone elses owns,
That inspire me to try to write
A better work than Sticks And Stones

I always thought it seemed to be
A glorified, extended limerick
Compared to others on the daily-
All of them! Take your pick!

This rhyme is an apology
To those who may have thought
That I may show some consistency
In the writing of my poetry,
When I have not.

"There's a time and a place" the gravedigger said,
"For humour, and this isn't it."
But the thought process currently stuck in my head
Is: "Maybe it is. Just a bit."

The businessmen said, in no uncertain tones,
That my silliness simply won't do,
And quickly went back to their laptops and phones,
But I still think the opposite's true.

There's no harm at all in increasing the stock
Of the cheerfulness in this cruel world,
And, often, my humour has been like a rock
While the pain inside me has unfurled.

I cannot explain why, when I start to cry,
That, sometimes, I laugh while I do.
In the depths of despair, where men want to die:
I can see the ridiculousness too.

So if I should be sad, and you see me laugh,
Just know I'm still dying inside,
And that I simply have to follow this path,
Or tears will flow out in a tide.