I am Briefly and completely 

All-consumed by an 

Immediate and horrific 


At the state of my life 

At the state of life 

“And what do you do to soothe this ailment” 


Why change my understanding 

My fleeting 




And passion 

For what is before me 

For what makes me, 


This crippling 

And violent 


Which blinds me to all the 

 Colours of the day 

And fills me with nothing but grey 

In grey you see all, 

What should, what could, 

What must have been,


I could never change that. 
Bask in the anger. 

Bask in the pure fury 

Of the moment 
For that, is truly


Writer’s Block

There comes a point

Where you look at yourself and think:

This is it.


This is where it ends.


Every word you put out is toxic, it comes back at you

As something else


None of its right.


Because you can’t write

And your god given gift of being a god

In every world you write

Is stricken


With your inability to

Put the pen to paper – stop being such a slacker!


Have a drink, take a hit

Might as well, everything you’ve been scratching down


Has gone to shit.


It’s different when a writer can’t write,

Sure, maybe the sun is still bright –

But for a dreadful moment, you’re normal.


Inner Me 

I want to leave you in razor blade handcuffs, leave you with the dare to get free
I want to fill your lungs with black and hold my hand over your face  
I want to carve your tongue from your face to flog your shoulders,

So you feel the lash of your words 
I want to cut you deep enough that from your veins 
I spill out

So when I look in the mirror my reflection is not you 
But me