On Writing · poetry

I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.

Does the storyteller aways have a

Spirit in hand,

Alone in the dark

While spinning his tale?

Or can it be a wish?

Maybe a child?

A lover?

A hope?

A thought?

A feeling?

One that isn’t failure, I mean.

Or maybe just a cup of tea-

I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.

On Writing · poetry

Moonlight and Despair

I’m brooding over a mug

Of black coffee at 4am,

Trying to warm my cold bones

And broken heart…

Oh please,

I drink green tea

After my morning yoga;

I’m about as happy as it gets.

Unfortunately mountains poses

And sunrise

Don’t sell quite as well

As moonlight and despair.

On Writing · poetry

oh, honey

Oh, honey,

There’s no need to throw

Your concern around like

A balloon in the wind,

Just constantly wafting around my


I’m fine!

I would not be so vain

To write everything about me;

And I would not be so


To only take inspiration from

That which is closest to me.

On Writing · poetry

yes, this one’s sarcasm too

Excuse me,

but the sun is sinking and

I must bid you farewell

And crawl back into my cave

Of parchment and torment;

The walls are covered in the

Graffiti of my innermost

Desires and regrets,

And every night I lie surrounded,

Reading and re-reading

Every terrible line,

Every spelling mistake

And bad punctuation.

It’s a hard life

Being a poet,

But please,

Feel free to make it harder-

Oh, cruel world-

Happiness will only make it worse.


On Writing · poetry

I’ll try harder next time

I’m afraid today’s poem won’t be much good.

The sun on my skin

Is making me far too happy,

And I keep accidentally saying

‘Good morning’,


and ‘Good day’

to the people who walk by.

I tried coming outside

To be inspired by my loneliness,

But I’m afraid I’m more inspired

By the green, green grass

And the bright blue sky

Than I am by my own

Free solitude.

I’ll try harder next time.

On Writing · poetry

Feelings are good inspiration

Feelings are good inspiration,

But I do not write such poems

To declare my days and

Tomorrows to be riddled with

More ‘hell’ than yours-

But, I suppose,

Some words have more than one meaning;

Most people have more than

One demon,

I’m just happy to

Wade through the fiction

For us both,

Hopefully finding some nice words

To make us both feel better;

Perhaps a nice rhyme, so you

Can double up on your mistakes

And I can double down-

Writing is a gamble after all,

But it is not your means

To my end.


On Writing · poetry

It’s called sarcasm, dear

I didn’t get a chance to write today-

I was too busy sweeping the

Floors of my chambers-

Although I did leave a few cobwebs,

Just for inspiration.

I tried to find the spiders

To invite them to dinner,

But I think they abandoned me

With the rest of humanity-

Why, oh why?


I kept my quill to hand

As I gazed out my

Rain-drenched window,

But the words would not come-

And then I was too busy

Juggling self-doubt and self- deprecation

To do anything else.

Why must life be so cruel?


I’m far too busy stroking black cats

And pacing my study-

Too busy watching crows,

And visiting graveyards,

To ever amount to much.

That’s why I must plan my funeral

For my 25th

To free up my time.