These Things I Write

Reflections of a neurotic trainwreck




What is a dream but a lost fantasy wind?
Fickle and saccharine and full of lies to rescind.
What is a dream but dust?
For crumble in someone’s fist it must.
What is a dream but rays of silver moonshine?
It fades to nothing at sunrise, line by lovely line.
What is a dream but a vain boast?
Reason will never wrap it closed.

Then what fool cares for dreams,
Or yearning or pining or wishing
When your heart lies on another’s palm?
A dream is unreal-
What truth does it hold?

What is a dream?
Just hope that melts on your tongue.



Little hurt people live in my head,
wrecked for hate
or too much love.
They walked so far upon their feet,
found solace in my pit of vitriol
and harboured their fatal fleet.
They try to whisper but echo mighty.
Dark creatures scurry through my mind;
to touch is to taint.
They taught me to let no one see the black pulsing through my veins,
the neat rip across my heart,
the hollow I see beyond tomorrow
“for the light makes mock of sorrow.”
To let no one spy
the lies on my tongue,
charred dreams inked in pain, and
that no one is as gone as I.


A little time bomb failed all its tests,
Got hurled into a deep ravine
In scrub and thorn and stagnant water
Gained a coat of ruby rust,
But still it kept on ticking
As the sun and moon switched places
Once and thrice and thirty times.
It kept ticking loud and measured:
Tick tick tick tick tick. 
The world abhors your sound. 
Someone plunge a chunk of metal
Deep into its heart
Just let the pain bleed out.

Days and Nights 

Some days are the first of summer:
Clouds tinged with colour, 
Laughter bubbling out
Like froth kissing the sides of a soda can.
Some days are chaos:
Misery runs to my embrace.
I salt my cuts and eat them raw,
Squeeze my chest to cease the hurt
Or to make it bloom anew.

Some nights are cups of tea
Warm and strong and soothing my fears
Scent of paper holding my eyelids taut
And my hand gliding across a sonnet maze
Raw and scribbling but with that storyteller grace.
Some nights are milk beginning to curdle,
Pounding head and silent heart,
Numb with pain
Sat on the floor behind a wall
-Sneering at fairytale people
And their calligraphic font-
Sour and bitter,
Never to fit in a storybook page,
Too much ugliness that would litter.


Every tether is a shackle.
Though flowery wreaths of golden thread
Or silver glinting in sweltering sun,
It kisses your arm at one end
And licks my throat with its long tongue.
I might try to run away
To the other end of the world,
But my breath will catch as you choke me.
Once I fall and see your glory,
I will be chained to your side.
My days and nights will rise and fall
With the cadence of your cold breath.
My hair will whip around my face
heart pounding, nerves thrumming
As a storm teases at your side.
I will wait with red rimmed eyes
Sleepless when dawn breaks
Wondering where you are,
For it seems your end has give.
Be cruel to me, and push me away;
If you beckon with your madness
I will crawl until my knees bleed,
Insanity is intoxicating,
delirium divine.
Crush me until I loathe you,
Then turn away until I forget you.

Of love or of loathing,
A tether is a shackle,
however lovely.


No reason for worry
But waiting as if stranded
on some remote isle
staring at pink sunsets
marking time desperately
watching moons wax and wane,
unblinking, sightless,
parched throat never quenched,
selfish wishes never granted,
mind dancing with madness.

No reason for sadness,
But no one ever showed me
how to be happy,
or to smile at scars and ugly marks
and claim beauty.

No reason for resentment
But when was art
ever born of contentment?
Things fall into place
in wildly wrong ways;
burned out, magic lost,
thoughts swirling,
caught in a tempest
-storms are always majestic;
that is why we live.

No reason for drowning,
but lungs filling with venom,
spitting out carcasses of love songs;
every inhale gasping deep,
clawing with blunt fingernails
at a shore nowhere to be found:

No reason for anguish, but
this stomach-roiling grind,
pursuit of ghosts and myths,
stories that go on and on
lies passed on
century after century.
Gifts of torment,
wretched soul to wretched soul.

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All we have:
words fall out like loose teeth,
slip out of swollen mouths,
cut and bend and bleed
striking discord with numbed minds.
No purpose,
only hollow dreams;
no end in sight.
All we have are dusty roads
and crooked street signs,
full graveyards,
hopes shredded into fine fragments of scepticism,
semi-muses in irrelevant poetry,
written in waves of profound emotion,
cut back and butchered
over and over again;
dreamlike characters on movie screens
and books with broken spines
perused with broken hearts:
all paralysed.
All we have are too many words unknown,
too many forgotten,
too many people
suspected of our crimes,
too many abandoned
in a distant foggy past.
All we have is reality,
understood and fought against,
futile struggles as we trudge along.
Ordinary people with shattered dreams.
No end in sight.

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I wrote a poem about you
In which you were someone else
but underneath, you were you Continue reading “Poem”


Not quite pitch black:
Grime-coated rusty streetlights
looming over echoing, overused, underused
grey tar ridden with cavities.
Not quite silent:
Crickets and frogs
and horns and distant music
and somewhere, water splashing,
everywhere, people in peril.
Yet somnolence hangs heavy
yawning in humid early summer sky.
No place for the sleepless;
burning lamp but a distant speck,
not old enough to matter,
too old not to.
Almost. But not quite.

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