Poems are my photographs
my diary
my inner monologue
poems are my measurement
my record
the fingerprints of emotions
invisible no more
Poems are my expression
the sum of interactions
they show my working out
Poems are the breath
of lost lovers
against my neck
Poems are my kisses
for my family and my friends
the hugs I seldom give

And your poems...
your poems keep me company
a l...

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Poetry is my 
drug of choice,

calming rain, 
rays of sunshine. 

an antidote 
to suffering,

waltzing words
on lonely nights,

my lost lover 
whispering
in my ear,

release, 
of fear,

wind beneath
birds in flight,

illuminating 
light,

immortality...

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Willpower and discipline,
have long been two of the 
most despised words in the 
english language to me.

What character flaw prevents  
the willpower and discipline
necessary to be the person
I imagine myself capable of being?

A half-lived life is heartbreaking.
There is no acceptable excuse, 
not age or disability.

Even people with no limbs 
live empowered lives 
built on willp...

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The way I write…
I brainstorm twenty titles
words or phrases
that sound good to me
that subconsciously
already feel like parts of me
then I refine them
and refine them
pile them up around my feet

And when I’m in the mood to write
I’ll either start writing
(with aim or aimlessly)
until I get stuck
then I grab a title
work it in the lock
release whatever’s hidden
(and it feels good...

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I love to write poetry,

As it gives me vent for my expressions.

And I believe it a more peaceful way

Than turning to aggression.

Of all the words that I could choose

I am in the main seat of control.

To show my thoughts and feelings, 

And exult the reader's soul.

And when I find my inspiration,

I ponder - what is my next direction?

And though I find it hard ...

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the second my eyes caught your gaze,

i’ve been consumed with a powerless craze

i saw you.

your knife sits inside me stuck

but the high from this adrenaline rush 

i get through.

the two of us in a room:

please don’t leave, i better leave soon

turn me blue.

say my name in conversation 

dials up a full body sensation

this is new.

i resent the wo...

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Thousands of pages in an empty room

Thousands of stories waiting to be told

The pages go untouched 

The magic within begins to fade

Beloved characters cease to exist 

Daring fights go unheard of 

People begin to feel empty 

Not always sure why 

It's because those empty rooms 

Inked pages breathe life to us 

Teach us history, adventures, to love 

We mustn't forget t...

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Oh NaPoWriMo 
how you challenge me.

Calling me to rhyme on time
when I would rather procrastinate
with this talent of mine. 

A poem a day keeps the doldrums away.
Read it, write it, recite it,
makes no difference 
to me. 

Just do what you can 
with what you've got
and see how happy 
you will be!
 

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The blackness doesn't exist
With eyelids positioned, fixed
Closed
To all looking in
A mind that won't give in.

Spectrums of colour await
Films and events, 
Dissipate
Into moments that shouldn't exist
As the frequency demands it's existence to manifest.

The future and past 
Pour like an hourglass
With each grain of sand
Making moments of transcendent glam.

Moments defined by an ...

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Below is one of my children's poems called 'Disney Days'.

DISNEY DAYS

Warmer than a Sheep Dog hug
or happiness rolled in a rug;
dancing dizzy Dulux joy,
whirls and swirls and shouts ‘Ahoy!’

Brighter than a scientist,
the artist’s pallet shines and skips.
Free from Greenwich Mean Time days,
they demonstrate their West End ways.​

Talent dazzles, beaming light
into the insides of o...

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Terence Evans had little respect

For the life or the welfare of any insect

He swatted the fly with the rolled daily news

And stamped on the beetle in his Doc Marten shoes

Unfortunate spiders were drowned in the bath

Caterpillars were crushed should they dare cross his path

He bisected worms with his pocket penknife

Pulled the legs off cray-fly and...

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The dawn never breaks, the sun never sets.

Dirty grey brown sky is as good as it gets.

Malevolent and brooding it hangs like a veil.

Twenty-three feet above the Arndale.

Where uncouth youth roam in packs.

Their flint like scowls as keen as tacks.

Malice and boredom forged the frowns.

On the not so bright future of Mediocre Town.

But don’t be fooled, these kids are scho...

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My rhymes form in clouds

over the arm chair

beside my note books

and the fire

My lines are captured

and preserved

in the remains of the forest

immortalised on its pulp
 

My words are held captive awhile

in the bright prison cells

where machines etch their pain

on smooth white sheets

My once quiet thoughts crash

noisily onto the leaves

again and ...

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So it's cliche,
write anyway.

So it's not 
gramatically correct,
write anyway.

So it doesn't rhyme,
write anyway.

Don't let judgmental
"experts" distort
your perception 
of poetry 
or silence
the part of 
your soul that
longs to make
sense of life.

Just write 
any way! 

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