Tag Archives: thoughts

Sea of Faces

I’m drowning
in this sea of faces,
So many faces,
All eyes on me,
So many eyes,
I’m suffocated,
So many eyes,
But none can see,
My mind rewinds,
Removes all traces,
Inside, my stasis
starts to bleed,
The wounds are born
from sworn self hatred
that filters out
wellwishers deeds,
All good intent
my mind erases,
And in its place;
a rotten seed,
And from it grows
all the hollow aching
Black Dog’s thirst
could ever

Terror Dactyls

o how you
flow from me
endlessly, mare
of the night you
creep in like
the dead,
I can’t
sleep without
words – flapping
bats of insanity –
taunting me,
haunting me,
dactyls of
coking the fires
of artistry, scorching
their rhapsodies
into my



napowrimo2015Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge was to write a poem that addresses itself, or some aspect of its self. As someone who suffers from insomnia, I find that often a word, a line or concept for a poem will come to me in the dead of the night. It is never actually welcome at that time, but that fact seems to be irrelevant….! And if you hadn’t noticed, the poem is made entirely of dactyls (aside from the last word), a term that I haven’t been able to get out of my head since the day 11 challenge!

Than the Sword

In my hand,
each stroke, once primed,
can fill a page
with endless rhyme,
the cadence
dances in my mind,
into stimuli
that pirouette
down through my spine
and reach my fingers
just in time
for thought and ink
to be aligned,
for my every wish
to be defined.

In my hand,
this pen is mine,
we are one;
a bond divine.
But in your hand,
to you consigned,
it does your bidding,
it speaks your mind.
What mighty power
from meek design;
to ink war and peace
and this little rhyme.

napowrimo2015Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge was to write a calligram (a visual poem) so I also hand wrote the above poem in the form of a squiggle, like you do when you’re testing a pen, which I thought complimented the poem’s theme:


Identity Crisis

What makes you you?
The things you’ve seen?
The lives you’ve touched?
The where you’ve been?

If you woke without your memories,
Tell me, who, then, would you be?

Would you still be you?
Could you ever know for sure?
Or would you relinquish
all that came before?

Know this:

Who you have been
is not who you are;
Change can smooth
a thousand scars,

The past is written, yes
So leave it be,
What the future holds
is what interests me,
Second chances will come,
If you welcome them,
For who you are tomorrow
is still to be penned,

So if you don’t know
who are today,
Then it’s okay;
it means your slate is clean,
You’re can play the you
you want to play,
Act One is done;
So write a brand new scene.

Autoimmunity of the Mind

I’m on the precipice
of an explosion,
Complete soul erosion
and a loss of control,
of the mind,
Impunity is blind,
Cannibalistic thoughts
that could swallow you whole
disempower each other
– they devour each other –
before they can fruit,
A dissociative fugue
that calls into question
the need to…
But with no memory
of sanity
and no manner
of clarity
surely that point


The sky bleeds pink,
Fat smears of solar ink,
Smudged like mascara on the cheek
of the angel who weeps
for the inevitability that creeps
in across the sky;
The day must die.
And how can the finality of death,
The taking of a final breath,
Yield a beauty that could steal it?
That could make a mind reel in it?
Feel in it
an awe that can change a life?
Make a future bright?
And all within the dying of a light?
Yes, the day must die…
But oh,
the endless possibilities
of the night!


I looked at him,
Into the emerald of his eye,
And he did not see me,
My fingers passed right through
the rosy blush upon his cheek
and he did not feel me,
I said that thing he always loved
and the words; they just evaporated
and he did not hear me,
And the saccharine scent of my perfume
that reminded him of butterflies
just fell into the void
and he did not smell me,
And he didn’t press upon
the worry of my brow
with the softness of his lips;
He did not taste me,

And then I knew
that I was asleep,

And then I cried
no tears.

Happy Place

In my happy place
is where you’ll find
the detritus of my soul
my mind
has ruptured
and its capillaries pour
– with every ebb –
waves of life into the cyber void
and snag
– with every flow –
the single threads
that once wove my soul
into the fabric of this time
and there you’ll find
not a person
but a shadow
a whisper from behind the screen
the remnants of a being
tightrope walking
this way
that way
yet perfectly
inside this tangled web
in this expanse
of ink as flesh
and pixelated sinews
beyond composure
barely clinging
yet still winning in
the war that none can see
the devil’s greatest trick
is the mantra
of this disease
the anchor
in this melancholy scow
a vessel that is empty yet
so full of
bitter truths
and weighed down
with lies that lie untold
secrets will unfold
if the question’s ever broached
until then I’m all alone
in my happy place
because no-one
ever knows
just how to
just how to take a
yet monumental
behind the mask.

In the Nothing

I may not be there at the end of things,
When all that has been done becomes undone,
When the tides run through every street I ever knew,
And the very sky becomes one with the dying sun.

I may not be there at the death of man,
When their screams of pain surrender to the void,
When the nothing that was a something is a nothing once again,
When eternity is eternally destroyed.

I may not be there when the blackness creeps
and takes back every seed that life has ever sown,
When the chariots of flame with their mounted monsters from the fray
thunder forth to carry all existence home.

But I am here now; this, the only certainty life affords,
This moment; this is real; here, now, where I stand,
And as I search the starry eyes of heaven’s face,
Feeling not unlike a single grain of sand,
I contemplate and deliberate, ruminate and debate
the futility in the devising of some great plan,
But I know beyond all doubt that for the heartbeat I am here,
I must make a something of the nothing that I am.


A chameleon,
Ever blending in,
No-one’s seen my original skin.

I can be your friend,
Readily pretend,
And I lend myself to any trend,
To be just like you,
Be exactly who
I deduce that you would want me to.

And it keeps me safe,
It’s my hiding place,
But if someone dares to glimpse my face,
Then I disappear,
Choose a new veneer,
Reinvent myself and persevere.

So many faux mes,
As I’ve fought please,
That I’ve gained a certain expertise,
But I’ve switched design
one too many times,
And no longer know which one is mine.

Image Credit: Liu Bolin, “Angela Missoni” (2011), Courtesy of Eli Klein Fine Art, New York