When I wrote my first poem,
I remember you laughed,
told me writing’s a hobby,
but never a craft.

I continued to write, 
any time I was able.
Now that hobby of mine,
puts our food on the table.

People Pleaser

I’ve not posted for a while, mainly because I’m rubbish. But I’m trying to get back into a regular rhythm. Anyway, here’s a poem.

I am a people pleaser.
People pleasing is my game.
If you knew the lengths I go to,
then I doubt you’d do the same.
If you think my people pleasing,
affords me a life of ease,
then I’ll laugh at your misjudgement,
if it doth the people please. 


Do I write to kill time?
Do I write to praise art?
Do I write with a keyboard? 
Do I write with my heart?
Do I write to say things
otherwise left unsaid?
Do I write to clear debris
that clutter my head? 
Do I write to feel right?
Do I write to feel wrong?
Is my writing a portrait,
or is it a song? 
Do I write to earn money?
Or do I write to play?
Could I write for both reasons?
Would that be okay?
Do I write to slay dragons
that live in my brain?
If I write long enough,
will I write myself sane? 
Do I write ‘cos I care?
Do I write ‘cos I don’t?
Do I write to write things
that I know others won’t? 
Is writing compulsion?
Is it my OCD?
I don’t know but I’m writing,
and writing is me. 

Bury it Deep

Bury it deep,
deep in the ground.
I cannot tell you 
the peace that I’ve found.

You told me: ‘stop digging,
face up to your pain.’
I explained that I couldn’t,
again and again.
You then hid my shovel,
so I couldn’t dig.
The world was too much,
my feelings too big.

So I buried you deep,
deep in the ground.
Now I cannot tell you 
the peace that I’ve found.

Easter Eggs

Hiding Easter eggs can be fun, just don’t forget where you hid them…

You asked me to hide Easter eggs,
so you could go and find.
You’ve always been a child at heart,
so I really didn’t mind.

I hid some in the garden,
and some behind the books. 
I tried to dream up places
that thought you wouldn’t look.

You found them in the bathroom,
you found them on the stairs, 
you found some in your secret drawer
(I didn’t hide them there).

And then on Monday morning, 
you watched me rise with dread,
and staring at my boxers, asked:
‘Did you hide some in the bed?’



Are you a writer,
or do you just write?
Some say ‘aspiring’.
Well stop it - we’re hiring! 
Don’t make your own
barriers to entry.
There are hurdles aplenty,
don’t be your own sentry. 


Moderate Self Hate

I would never hurt myself,
or think it better that I died.
But sometimes when I stub my toe
I feel it’s justified.


Boys Don’t Cry

When I was growing up
they told me ‘boys don’t cry’. 
So countless were the times
I got something in my eye.

When I started in the workplace 
they said that boys don’t stress. 
So I hid in the store cupboard
when I felt I was a mess.

Lately I’ve been thinking,
I can’t deal with what’s inside.
I hope they raise my son to know
that it’s okay not to hide.

Body Bag

Yes this is 
my body bag, 
the only one
I’ve ever had.
I’ll show you how 
I lie in it,
it’s super warm,
a perfect fit.
Yes I’ve brought
it into class
for show and tell.
Why do you ask?
Yes I did mean
sleeping bag,
now I see
how that looked bad. 

Never Let Me Go

You are sweet,
the sweetest girl I know,
or knew,
(now I’m past tense.)
You never broke 
a promise made,
and love 
is your essence. 

But now I’ve begun 
to decompose
I lost a toe)
I’d forgive
on your vow
to never let me go.