Well, forever?

Yes, I think I will stay for another,

For just a little while longer.

There’s the smell of loneliness in the air

And I am in no rush.

Tell me stranger,

Why doesn’t forever always last for…

Well, forever?


My feet feel like stormy seas

My feet feel like stormy seas,

Leading me away from shore.

My hands feel like cloudy skies,

Grasping at nothing but fog-

Feeling nothing but rainfall.

My eyes see like rocky ground,

Littered with rubble from the past.



Wrapped up in bobble hats

And borrowed scarves,

With fluffy socks tucked inside boots,

and hands tucked inside jumper sleeves

where we wipe cold noses

being nipped by winter.

We pop inside for a coffee

and a catch-up;

The warmth from inside steamed up 

my glasses-

The cold from outside frosting up

the windows.

We can only see hazes of

coloured lights and street lights

and shapes of people passing by

with shopping bags and old friends.

Jingle bells play over the clinks 

of teacups and plates

and cosy conversation.

It’s the most wonderful time

Of the year.

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.



the city doesn’t care

The city has a story to tell.

Rumour has it you do too,

But I’m afraid you won’t always

Be around to tell it.

Sure, you can feel tall and mighty

Watching beetles on the pavement,

But riddle me this:

I was once 11,

Now I’m 21;

Soon I’ll be 31,

Then 101…


Look up at the clouds and skyscrapers;

The city doesn’t care

About the people on the pavement.

It doesn’t even see the beetles.

This universe

Works the same way too;

In light years you might as well

Not exist…

Yet you still insist

That your writing isn’t good

And rejection hurts


Dead people would call you crazy.

The universe doesn’t care,

So listen to the ghosts,

And stop caring too.


Inspired by J. Truant’s book ‘The Universe Doesn’t Give a Flying F**k About You’