screaming at walls

Screaming at walls

Crushing into my mattress

I am a painting

Mouth gaping

Deep black hole

Praying earnestly

To God, up and far away

Like father

Twinkling in the sky

Speaking to empty air

I feel

Drenched in sadness

I feel 

Wet with anguish

I am swimming in pent up emotions

I am swimming


No-one wants to be the one displaying 



isn’t attractive

Cover yourself

For god sake,

It’s uncomfortable 

We’re uncomfortable

Take up the mattress you own

Take up the tears

Refold into yourself 






Depression is a brick

I mourn through soaked iris

The pit of emotion


The mirror I smash

The mirror I am

I smash

At a point most weak,

Thin thread of a spider web

At the most vulnerable,

A man squatting in a public toilet

Pride wrapped around his ankles

I am there

Drowning because

The surface, hands too far

Woeful because

Other, stare, watch the splash

Walk off back to their own lives

Bitterness becomes oxygen

I am still drowning 

Painful because

This weak point

Feels an accumulation of lost love

Of disapproving childhood

Of lost heart in heat

Of grooming, of men ambushing

Of femininity, blackness, migrant status

Lost riches, 

Sinking into poverty

I am sinking into poverty of

Heart, mind and soul

In a world,

Where even blood stains without cause,

Where is my cause found

Amongst the mundane

Amongst the self-entitled

Which do I join?

Which do I perish in?


For me writing isn’t to share pain, rather expose it for the reality it is. New age positivity bullshit does not bandage the fact that life is strenuous, intolerable and harsh. We protect ourselves well; the pain is important.

Poem 6.

Oh you victim,

‘You pushed me away!’

Oh you poor victim –

what did the world owe you?


Because this world won’t care until death,

and who recognises we’re all just people, nothing more and nothing less.

Wrapped up in the emotional debts of old karmic cycles,

what did I owe you?

And if it all amount to nothing, just the black abyss of a subpar existence, revolving around your claim to want me, to care for me, to see me somehow.

This isn’t a love poem, who cares for the old scaring love,

this is a poem for when you give for your family –

and they abandon you.



And then you wonder.

Who really wanted to know.

And who really cared.

When friends become foes,

and the world scoffs when you scream its not fair.

And who wanted to take their own life,

to guarantee the survival of mine.

And who really cared about the struggle,

who really cared about the loss,

who really cared about the brutal, testing cost.

And who just wants one thing,

and who wants everything.

And who will give something,

in return of nothing.

And who judges you day and night,

and who puts you in that ruthless box.

And who sits back in pain,

when you soul begins to rot.

And who kept their word,

and who broke you down.

And who is still around –

who is still around?