Like the jagged edge of a broken sword you cut

a wound deeper than it seems to be from the

surface. How puffs of air could be so cruel is mind-

boggling unless of course it is by accident, which is

why i use my own words to counteract yours in a

failed soundwave perhaps explainable by physics but

for you everything i have to say just falls flat. well,

the world revolves around free choice but remember

that it was your choice to start this and my choice

to end it, so when the cameras flash and twitter stings

don’t come crying to me to end it.

i already did.


Running Blue

In and out of black he dreams

As he lies wrapped up in blues and greens

A sea of hospital blankets and gowns

A sea of cloth in which he drowns

As desperate nurses soak up the red

He’s bleeding out — that wound on his head

Is too big a gash to know how to treat

And then, just like that, his heart stops to beat

And then there’s a panic, they call a Code Blue

The grey-coated speakers vibrate in the room

White gloves are donned as they press on his chest

The sequence is clear; this is cardiac arrest

Copper is the colour of the meds in the vials

Brown are the eyes which blink in denial

When nothing starts working and the man stays dead

Even when he’s stopped bleeding from the wound on his head

Red are their eyes when you tell them the truth

You’re calm, though your body is dying to leave the room

Bad news is awful even without the guilt

Of feeling, somehow, that his blood you spilt

…orange is the candle they draw on the page

In the obituary section, where they write his name

But blue is the memory that stains in your mind

A code blue you couldn’t save — no, not this time

This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

A hundred million rows of men

Descend upon my mind again

Their arrows fly, blades held aloft

Yet the touch is strange, gentle and soft

I guess a knife’s a welcome change

From the anguish I feel, day after day

For dreams reflect our real-life woes

And my dreams prove the distance I’ve to go

To find forgiveness in my heart

For the things I’ve felt rip it apart

That’s why I see these nightmare men

Who represent the things I’ve said

Which haunt me in the worst of times

Ripping through memories in my mind

But how can I escape them, though?

If only I knew how to let things go

Saturn’s Rings

Like Saturn’s rings, you spin around

Your giantess, already crowned

Her colours blur your vulgar thoughts

You men are cheap, by beauty bought

Your mistress turns her orbit lanes

While I revolve in lesser planes

A pile of rock and ice, dull grey

Yet she’s an orb of gaseous rays

No wonder you turn your head like you do

If I beheld such beauty, I’d do the same, too


But all of space and time can’t buy

A love like yours that’s free from lies

Beauty is a deadly catch

And her poisonous fumes will leave you trapped

And you’ll go up in smoke one day

While your belovéd floats away

Beauty lives for but a day

But a small sturdy rock forever will stay

All the Way Up

I remember those days ,when I stood where you are

And wondered how people could travel so far

They could climb to the top, to the peak of their game,

And bask in the riches of glory and fame

But now you stand there, and I’m…somewhere else

Yet you place me in spotlights, set me high on a shelf

An icon to be worshipped, but I’m not sure what’s changed

Stripped down to the basics, I’m still just the same

Yet you look at me, with rose-coloured eyes

And study my life’s journey like it’s the key to the skies

But I’ve made so many missteps — don’t follow me at all!

I may be high up now, but I’m just about to fall

Carve your own path to the sky; don’t follow what I did

If you pay heed to your heart, you’re gonna go far, kid

Beautiful Mess

So here we are again, another year’s end

It feels a little melancholy, like I’m leaving a dear friend

It wasn’t the best relationship (at times, it was a mess)

But if I put the bad aside, and focus on the rest,

Bits of pieces of stories start to come alive

And I remember the year in pieces, a fragmented story time

A disaster ending in victory, only to fail again

One journey just beginning, at another journey’s end

One love that I’d forgotten just as another one bloomed fresh

A reflection in the mirror, a beautiful crying mess

All these pieces make a story, a story that was mine

But now, as this year passes, it belongs to Father Time

But the best part of the new year is this story I can start

With promises shining bright enough to melt any scarred heart

Black Magic

A black devil waltzes through Christmas décor

Bringing his filth to those he abhors

Turning off lights as bulbs flicker out

Relishing as partygoers shriek and shout

Despair is his mantra, all that he knows

He brings destruction wherever he goes

Lost love and relationships, memories that fade

Foul words and gestures, which start to abrade

Against nerves, against hearts, against minds slightly warped

His is a plot which none can thwart

And while some may frolic beneath Yuletide cheer

The Christmas Devil lurks, spreading hate and fear

angry old man

an angry old man looked death in the face

and demanded the business he had in that place

death didn’t answer (he never really does)

but the old man didn’t care — his head was abuzz

and his heart was aflame with an old man’s desire

to place his mark on the world before he expires

and that’s why the wizened old man (the fool)

used his last ounce of strength to break every rule

the first man in history with the courage to dare

to spit in death’s face, as death stood right there!

of course it was in vain; death had only to frown

to regain his composure and smite the man down

but as the man died, a smile graced his face

as his spirit broke loose and escaped from that place

death folded his scythe and slipped quietly away

his job here was done, just the work of a day

Hunter’s Moon

fighting for glory against an

abyss of blackout curtains blocking out

worlds it glows with the brilliance of a

fool who thinks the world still

kind, still beautiful, still full of

hope, how stupid —

the audacity of dreamers

— and a big ol’ yeller moon

Christmas Gloves

There they lay, inside the box

The tag outside displays the cost

They aren’t cheap, but they are half off

So I make my choice and pick up the box

I fish out the bills and pay the cashier

Wish her a very Happy New Year

Then I step out into the blustering cold

The box tucked inside my fleece-lined coat

It isn’t the biggest present I’ve got

Nor is it the best that could be bought

But as I am walking, through blistering wind,

I hear a small voice, child-like and thin.

It is a child speaking, of nine or ten,

Huddled against the burning wind

Her coat is worn thin, and her fingers are blue

Of course you know the first thing I’d do

I took out the box and gave it to her

Watched her eyes light with a flame that burnt

Far too brightly in such a small face

For me to be happy just leaving that place

So I reached in my pocket to pull out some bills

But what my fingers brushed gave me the chills

No leather-bound wallet greeted me there

No, there was nothing in my pocket, but air!

As I started to grasp this grave reality

A real-life end to generosity

The child scampered off, running far away

Leaving me wallet-less in that alleyway

And so I trudged home, sans gloves and cash

(Luckily I still had some in my bedroom stash)

But it was a blow, not at all how I’d dreamt

A Christmas shopping day, come to an end