Wednesday 8 November 2017

Nothing to show - POEM #9

I'm debating on leaving this world this evening.
I'm not sure many people would notice if I did.
I'm fed up with everything,
Telling people how I feel
Makes me feel worse.
They just ask me how I feel more often.
I feel the same.
I'm 20 with nothing to show for it
But a part time job in a supermarket.
No A levels and no degree.
There are some things I take pleasure in
But they aren't enough for me anymore.
I'm scared of the nothingness tomorrow holds
And the thought that
I may never be truly happy.
I'm sorry that I'm a disappointment mum.
I'm sorry I'm not that cool dad.
I wish I didn't feel the way I feel
Or take things so deeply
But I do.
That's the way I've always been,
Sensitive.
You see colours,
I see life.
You see a blank page,
I see death.

Wednesday 30 August 2017

Aurora - POEM #9

I'd like a girl in the seat beside me
With one leg up on the seat
And unkept hair flowing freely
Bare feet resting on the interior
Looking out the window with a blank stare
Looking through the low hanging morning mist
That sits above uninhabited fields
And below a grey sky
She'd look over at me
And her aurora coloured eyes would pierce through me
A wave of numbness would caress the space beneath my ribs
I'd struggle to breathe
A touch away from crying
From the joy in the fact
That now I am miles away from how I used to feel
Her smile would warm my lifeless body
She'd look at my neck and touch it softly
And then look out again at the road ahead
With the purr of the engine
I'd grin to myself
Thinking about the lonely places I'm leaving behind me
The road would look the same for miles as would the land either side of us
But it would feel as if it never ends
Me and a girl moving towards a place we don't know
But we would move towards it anyway







Monday 5 June 2017

Boredom - LOG #6

Does boredom mean that I am too stupid to find something fulfilling to do? Or does it mean that all the tasks I could possibly do aren't fulfilling enough? Maybe it just means I have got enough routine. But even routine is boring. Maybe I am simply not content enough with my life. But maybe I don't really know that there is plenty of things to do, that are beyond me at this point in time. 

The thing is, when a teenager gets bored. He goes out somewhere, or he listens to music, or he watches TV, or he plays the Playstation. I can't think of anywhere meaningful to go in suburban London right now. I feel like I've listened to most of the music out there and if I listen to new music 95% of it doesn't do it for me. Watching TV and gaming just feel unproductive and eventually get boring. 

I need something to take me away. Something that truly grasps my attention and my emotions and my creativity. 

Perhaps I will write that novel I've wanted to write for a while now. Hopefully it will encapsulate the events of last August, when I went inter-railing around Europe with two friends. 

Friday 2 June 2017

Football Is Just A Sport - POEM #8

Football is just a sport.
It has no relevance
To poverty, politics or pain.
Football is just a sport.

But it's my blood;
It provides excitement
And upset.
Camaraderie in singing
Together all for a shared reason.
West Ham carries my family
Through generations.
It is a part of me and will be
Until my dying breath.

Football is just a sport.
A waste of emotion
And time.

But Blowing Bubbles will no doubt
Be played at my funeral.
And when I feel low
I always know
That West Ham is there for me
On a Saturday.


Wednesday 31 May 2017

Essex Sonnet - POEM #7

Fish lips, inhuman breasts,
Cars chosen for appearance,
Big muscles, small vests,
You dare show incoherence.

Shuvved through school,
You must get good grades.
You will become a bank's mule
And join their escapades.

A county of beauty and pride
If you have lots of money.
But you can't blame the young.
Blame the ones from which they've sprung.


Wednesday 3 May 2017

Bag of Meat - SHORT STORY #2


          The bed isn't made. The blinds haven't been opened. Flashing blue lights, a muffled voice and machine gun fire fills the room. A lonely digital clock slumps in the corner gathering dust. All the while the young man's heart rate rockets and serotonin flourishes through his head.
          'This weapon best suits this climate. If reloading takes too long I can use my gold-plated Desert Eagle. Remember you've got flash bangs and grenades as well.'
          '5 ... 4 ... 3 ... 2 ... 1...'
          He steps into the screen. The weapons are heavy and he's already sweating in his khaki uniform.
          'Time to kill.'
          He sprints forward.
          'Right. If I turn right at the dumpster then crouch behind the wall of the Tanks building, some opponents should appear.'
          He looks down the sight of his AK-47.
          'Enemy.'
          He squeezes the trigger and feels the power of the rifle punch his shoulder. The noise is deafening.
          The target's body shakes violently whilst blood gushes out of him from all directions.
          'Another one.'
          This one is sprinting so he is slightly harder to mow down.
          'Haha! Right he's down. I shouldn't crouch here much longer there'll be enemies in the courtyard behind me.'
          He stands up, expertly reloads his weapon and jogs over to four-foot wall overlooking the courtyard. Looking down the sight of his gun again, he focuses on a section left of a parked truck.
         An enemy sprints pasts but he only manages to damage him.
         'Shit. He knows I'm here now.'
         The target appears from around the corner and he fires at him.
         'No ammo. Quick, pull out you pistol!'
         He manages to fire one shot at his chest but the enemy is so close that he manages to knife him.
         'Fuck!'

         Hidden in the corner, back in the room, is a bag full of textbooks.
         The bag looks at the clock across the room.
         'Look at us!'
         'I know. He's had another relapse.'
         The body that once contained the young man is slumped back in the chair. His eyes rolling to the back of his head, leaving only white eyeballs.
         The room starts to shake violently. Dust starts to fall from the ceiling. The blinds smash down on the floor and the windows smash.
         'Shit. It's really happened this time.' says the clock.
         'Here take this.' He throws over the young man's baseball bat. 'Bat used to have such a good life ... now look at him; a corpse. Fuck it ... I think he would want this if he were still here.'
         They both nod at each other.
         The bag takes the baseball bat and stands up. Light is flashing violently in from the window. The sky is going from dawn to dusk to dark and back again within the space of seconds.
         Behind the young man the bag stands over him. He raises the bat above his head and swings the bat down into the young man's head. No reaction. The young man's body just slumps down further like a bag of meat. The bag pulls the bat out of the young man's head and swings again. This time harder and repeatedly.
         'Ahhhhhh.' He screams while smashing deeper into the skull.
         In the opposite side of the room the floor falls through, leaving a dark black hole.
         For a split second the bag and the clock look at each other with fearful expressions.
         The rest of the floor falls through producing a massive crashing sound like that of a building being blown up.
         All that is left is the young man in his chair and his gaming console. The top of his skull open with bits of brains seeping out.
         But his fingers are still methodically pressing the buttons on his controller.

Tuesday 3 January 2017

A Humorous Limerick - POEM #6

There once was a young man in education,
Predicted to do well in his vocation.
He tried his best,
But failed to impress
And now he's dead from self destruction.