poetry

~ Runaway Soul ~


~ Runaway Soul ~

My first trip was when I was nineteen
I spent a summer in Ghana
working at a local newspaper
for an internship related to my studies
(that would at least please the parents)

But really, I just needed to get out
throw myself into some foreign field
and let my mind be blown to pieces
by things I had not seen before
and would not see again

That was granted
and one year later
I was on a plane to Australia
where I spent a year wandering around
working odd jobs
staring out at sunsets
drinking with strangers
writing poetry under the stars

And then one year after coming home
I was back on a plane
this time: South America
six months of total madness
a twenty-two-year-old high on life
and drugs and women
and anything else I could get my hands on

It was my youth, my time
and I was going to take it by the balls
and have my way with it.

I had thought about other things worth doing in life
but to me, it was all about the experience
and I wanted as much as it
as my blood and brain and liver
could handle.

Seven years on nothing has really changed
I’m still planning that next trip
still running off into that sunset
still trying to find that magic something

I don’t suppose I’ll ever find it
at this stage I’m not sure I even want to

I just want to keep running
sprinting into that sunset
drinking with those strangers
staring up at those stars
another hopeless dreamer
lost in space and time
drifting in the cosmic ocean
and just falling in love
with this strange
thing called

life.

pexels-lachlan-ross-5967953

poetry

~ Stay Wild ~

~ Stay Wild ~

Dear child, I write you from afar
and ask only one thing for you to take into consideration for your one precious life.

Through the toils of the years, and the influences of society – I ask you to stay wild.
Consider this for you were forged in the stars, and assembled in the wilderness;
and – though illusion may pervade – nature will always remain your only real home.

Shake loose the shackles of the poachers whenever their locks tighten so.
Fight off the tyrants whenever they go near what must not be touched.
Spit out the decaying taste of the plastic soul’s dust.
Never wander too far into corporate falseness.
Stay wild – in mind, body, heart and soul.

Whenever you can, get back to your nature;
live out on the fringes, and exist on the edges,
among the wild eyes and undomesticated souls,
for that is where the magic happens.

Entertain new developments;
playfully explore new philosophies;
and toy with new technologies
but never forget to come back,
into the trees; to the depths of the waters.
and the murkiness of the unknown.

For that is where you truly belong:
deep between the roots of the forest;
in the expansive emptiness of the clouds;
and the timeless universe of the ocean.

Where the magic happens

in the wild.

(taken from my new poetry and prose book No Filter Necessary, available through my shop page)

poetry

~ The Unicorns ~

The Unicorns

Real people are rare.

Sorry, but it’s true.
Just listen to the conversation
In the typical crowd.

How safe their words
How constrained their behaviour
How manufactured their movements

Where are the real people?

The ones without masks?
The ones without scripts?
The ones just doing –
Whatever the fuck it is
Their heart tells them to

Such people are unicorns
In this current society
Of careful appearances
And mass conformity

Those who do not submit
Become outcasts and outsiders
Lingering in dark rooms
Avoiding the world
Like the plague it is.

I guess that’s what makes them so rare.
But it brings warmth to my heart
To know they are out there

Somewhere.

poetry

~ Escaping the Farm ~

~ Escaping the Farm ~

Often the less sanity a man has, the freer he is
Not shackled by the restraints of conventional thought
He is free to journey into a wilderness
That is untouched by the hands of others

In this wilderness he may find treasure
Or he may wander too far
And be consumed
By whatever awaits in the unknown.

For me, I have been losing my mind
And exploring this wilderness
For a long time now.
I have found myself in some dark places
Been close to the edge more than once
But I have also found things
that have enriched
and enlightened me as a person

And as time goes on, I start to realise that sanity
Is something similar to a farm
The people on that farm are safe and secure
They do not have to worry about the wolves
Or the creatures of the darkness

But they also live in a world of limitation
Confined by a rigid perspective
Unable to explore uncharted territory
And see things from a different angle

You know, they say that the road to creativity
Often veers close to the madhouse
And from my experience, I think that’s true

I’m pretty sure that these words
Come from a place
Many have feared to go

But just hear it from me:
Losing your mind
Can often take you
To some pretty interesting places.

This forest is alive
The wolves are howling
The wind is singing
And my soul is dancing

It’s not all bad out here,

I promise.

poetry

~ Caught in Nowhere ~

~ Caught in Nowhere ~

And the people my age were not like me
And the people younger than me were not like me
And the people older than me were not like me

I am caught in nowhere
No place to be
Or job to work
Or woman to come home to

This is how it is:
Approaching the age of 30
Living in a small rented room
Losing my youth and mind
Alone in this shit show

It’s just me and the word
Same as its always been
Hoping that somehow this madness
Will save me from this world

The reality is that I’m just another self-obsessed writer
Who can’t write a good poem to save my life
All I can do is spit out this pain onto the page
To at least feel a little better

There’s not much more to it than that
And believe me, I wish there was
I wish my words were good enough
To be found by some hotshot editor
Who sought to turn me into something
Different from what I am.

But what I am is inescapable
And this I have to accept:

I am alone in this
No job to work
No place to be
Nothing to get out of bed for
Nothing interesting to even write about

Caught in nowhere.

man sitting alone

poetry

Singing or Screaming? (Or Both?)

~ Singing or Screaming? (Or Both?) ~

You’re an angry young man,”
That was all my uncle had to say
after reading my first book.

But I knew he wasn’t totally right
Many people had been moved by my writing
Affected to a good degree
Some expressed deep emotions
And there were even a couple who quit jobs
To go and travel.

But for others like my uncle
It didn’t resonate
Didn’t speak to them
It just came out as anger
As spit and venom
From a jaded individual

I guess some of it was anger
But I really felt
That for most of that book
I was just letting the song of my soul
Play out onto the page

But maybe he had a point
For as others read my writing
I saw that some of them liked it
But most of them
Simply distanced themselves from me
Or pretended they hadn’t read it
Or dismissed me as a nutcase.

I guess there is no way to please them all
No artist has ever been universally adored
And what is singing to some
Is screaming to others

And that’s why I always think twice
When I listen to the birds

Outside my window.

birds branches

poetry

~ Like A True Professional ~

~ Like A True Professional ~

“But what is it you want to DO?” he asked me
It was a friend’s stepdad
In a bar over Christmas
One of those middle-class types
With the flash car and hot wife

I looked into his eyes
And thought about answering the question properly
To tell him about all my heart’s urges
About my crazy dreams
And existential desires

But of course, I knew
He would only understand an answer
That came in the form of a job role

These people often come up to me
They see me: a young man
Someone who speaks well
And even went to university
Surely he must be doing something with his life

For me, I was doing something
I was doing The Thing
Of following my heart
Travelling the world
Writing my poetry
And searching for the essence
Of what life was about
But it seemed that these things
Were not things
To people who measured life
By job titles and bank balances

God, maybe I really am crazy, I thought
Maybe I should just give up this crusade
Get a regular job
Become like that man
Tell people how I work in finance or something
How things are going well
Which holidays I’ve got booked
And what shows I’ve been watching on Netflix

But another part of me, says no, fuck it
I will not be ground down like the rest
I will not extinguish my fire
I will keep my shape
And stay true to who I am

And when they ask me what I do
I will look them in the eye
And tell them all the wonderful things I do
With a smug sense of pride

Like a true professional

Of life.

business

poetry

~ The Act of Expression ~

~ The Act of Expression ~

Maybe you don’t think your voice matters
Maybe you think that you’re just another person
With nothing of any value to say

And this is exactly
What they want you to think
But know that every person on this planet has a unique perspective,
That can be a source of treasure to others

But as we grow up the noise of society intensifies
And many of us begin to believe that our feelings are wrong.
So we learn to silence our inner voice
Out of the fear of judgment and ridicule.

But think about the people who inspired you.

They were once in the same position
Of questioning whether they wanted to share their truth
Before finally discovering
That their emotions and their feelings
Were just as important as any news broadcast
Or school textbook.

So if you can feel something inside trying to get out
Then have the courage to open up.

Write your poetry.
Sing your song.
Dance your dance.
Speak your truth.

Sometimes a few words can change everything.

man writing

poetry

~ Leave It ~

~ Leave it ~

I wouldn’t bother with me
I’ve long walked off the track you are on
You will find nothing of any use in me
And my poetry will repulse you

My words will not be familiar to your script
My behaviour will confuse you
My thoughts will scare you at best
And my interests will have no place in your life

No, I wouldn’t bother with me
I’m damaged goods, beyond saving
And you will feel ashamed
To be seen in my company

This wilderness I roam – it’s not one you want to be in
Although I often fantasise
About dragging you into it
So you can see the pain and madness
I know and endure.

But that would be cruel, so please:
just listen to my advice
keep your distance
and don’t bother with me.

This is the kindest advice
I can give
you.

pexels-photo-764880

poetry

~ Mutilated

~ Mutilated ~

The monsters under my bed

Have found me again

And what is left to do

But to lie frozen still

and let them have their way with me

.

They are beings of persistence

And the more their claws tear me apart

The more I become one of them

.

And the thought hits me 

That perhaps all monsters 

Were once scared children

Just wanting the light

But in denial of that

They were dragged into the darkness

To become the very thing

That haunted them.

claw