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’ 

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.



Headphones and Wine Bottles

Not exactly dressed for the kill-

Hell, she can’t even walk

In a straight line.

But she’ll still able to find her way

To you.

In these heels,

In those thoughts.


She dances with wine bottles

While headphones play

Some song

That had nothing to do with you.

Bare feet circling bare floors;

Bare hands hanging onto

Bare walls-

Or the toilet seat.

She feels poetic

Being this kind of broken;

Down in the dumps

Down on the floor

Over a heart that was never hers.



Just My Luck

Just my luck,
Reality picked me up again.
Even the sweetest dreams
Come to know that, deep down,
I never once turned you away.
Bad as I am, I’m also a fool,
Played by the fiction.
I’m going under paper hearts
To get over you,
But I think I’ve stood too long,
And my pride is running laps around me,
Just wanting to be wanted;
Only admitting its problems
To people
Who don’t exist.


Teaching Stones to Talk

I keep my ideas

Like butterflies on strings;


Like night owls in the sky

Lined up on cables,

Departing strand by strand

At the rising of the sun;


I keep them

Like the lines in my skin

Of these embrioded human hands,

Touching ink to paper,

Or practicing alchemy to

Teach the stones to talk.


I ask them to show me

Spirals of beautiful things;

To show me another thread

I can stitch under my skin.

Then will I be Art?