dedicated to chlöe
Copyright 2017 by Thomas W. Morris
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or educational studies. For use in collections or personal projects, contact the author via the website provided below.
Book cover designed by Gerhard Gellinger, Nürnberg.
Distributed by Shakespir.
Thomas W. Morris
There will be moments in life when you feel like a fish in a small bowl of water. Wanting to explore what life has to offer, but being confined by a glass dome. This is my experience of that feeling, my first three years of writing poetry, and the expression of personal emotions and creative energy.
If you asked me a few years back what I would be doing with my time, writing poetry would never have been on the list. For the first three years of writing poetry, I was quite embarrassed by it. It sounds silly to be embarrassed by something productive, but the area where I was raised as a child did not have much culture surrounding the arts. If I was writing poetry in school, there is no doubt that I would have been bullied. This meant that I was keeping my poetic experience and my real life separate, always posting under my pen name – T. W. Morris. Eventually I got a grip and came to terms with myself. During the development of my website, I decided that I need to be free with myself, and express what I have created. Being held back by opinions of others is quite ridiculous; everyone will have likes and dislikes, and are free to express those opinions.
That is why I call this title ‘Fishbowl’ as it is how I have felt for the past few years, a fish wanting to explore the ocean but instead feeling trapped. Hopefully this title marks the start of my adventure outside personal confinement.
I have ordered the book into genres of poetry, but the first chapter will be my very first works. It may be unusual to begin a poetry book with my most amateur work. However my intentions are not to make an elite, gilded book of master literature. This is more about personal expression.
‘Connecting with words’ contains my first ever poems.
‘Floating through void’ contains personal poetry that I have written in moments of feeling disconnected from the world, outcast and alone.
‘Black Clouds’ contains poetry of turmoil and distress, referring to mental illness, substance abuse and other inflictions.
‘Patters of strange’ contains surrealist and often weird poetry.
‘The lighthouse beams’ contains uplifting, fun, happy and children’s poetry.
‘Heart Shaped’ contains romance poetry, both positive and negative in nature.
If you are a writer wishing to collaborate, a student or charity wanting to use my work, or if you need a poem written for any reason, you can contact me and I will try to help out. The entire process of this book has been done alone, including formatting and editing, I apologize for any unnoticed mistakes.
Prior to writing my first poem ‘Ann’ in November 2013, I had little to no experience writing poetry. Of course I had a brief education with poetry in school, but the poetry we had to study was so uninteresting and dull that I lacked focus. I don’t even remember the name of the poets we studied. There’s no doubt that Shakespeare was on the list, and a great writer he is. However I think poetry has moved on a lot from Old English works, and schools should start to modernize their classes.
Once my interest in poetry developed, I had to learn about the subject on my own accord. After publishing my first few poems, I went on to make a collection called ‘The Journey’ which would contain several types of poetry as I went on to experiment with the art form.
My journey ended with the conclusion that you don’t need to know much at all to create a great poem, it doesn’t need to follow a pattern or be about a specific subject. As long as your poem flows without unintentional obstruction, it can be good. As literature, poetry is very controversial. For that reason, rather than trying to fulfil the emotional needs of readers, I write it for myself. Anyone who boards the train as I travel is a very welcomed companion.
This section of poetry contains some of my very first pieces. Despite wanting to go back, I never rewrite a poem once it is published. They mean more to me in pure form.
The birth of a burden
The bitter breeze coated her soul,
Their encounter wasn’t protected, she should have known.
Looking down at the future with a bitter perspective,
She wants it to blow over but the subject isn’t reflective.
The path has darkened, she is not feeling whole.
How would she maintain the upcoming toll?
Days pass as she becomes weaker,
The forthcoming events could barely be bleaker.
Would she be able to sell with a stomach so colossal?
She cried out to the Lord but didn’t believe in an apostle.
It’s too late for angles they are locked in the basement,
The key has been swallowed along with the replacement.
The time arrived for a new life to emerge,
Her body shook as her heart started to surge.
The monstrous discomfort forced her back to arch and wrists to curl,
Her focus elapsed as the room began to swirl.
Breathing became stable when a moment of tranquillity arose,
“It’s a girl” said the nurse, covering the child in clothes.
She wanted to hold her but was simply too worn,
Ann, a burden was born.
A corpse flower blossomed
The garden’s current consisted of consultations,
Leaves started fading despite many applications,
Soils become solid leaving unknown expectations.
Although shadows faced the statute of limitations,
Sunlight still shined upon nature’s beautiful creations.
Storms enflamed the atmosphere as the lone flower looked up into the sky,
Petals struggled sprouting due to the low water supply.
The other flowers have blossomed but this one can’t even cry,
The clouds up above all appear to be dry.
The garden was then moved behind a beauty salon,
Little Ann was confused, where are these people from?
Little Ann asked the lady, “Where is my mom?”
The lady gently replied, “The gardener has gone.”
Life in a turtle shell
Dear diary, who am I kidding?
Who needs a diary when these voices kicking,
I’m fifteen tomorrow, not that anyone cares,
All I will get is a few none stop glares.
Ann stopped speaking as her eyes filled with tears.
Who would have thought she would be living life in a turtle shell.
Hiding away, waiting for the metallic smell.
It turns out that foster care is not so caring,
Walking home in fear with a vision quite blurring.
Asking herself, is this life, or is this hell?
Is there a difference? She couldn’t tell.
Her days were spent screaming, but with a silent voice.
At school she sat alone, but it wasn’t a choice.
At home a single meal and a bashing was all she received,
Hunting for the escape rope, but ending on her knees.
Small birds can’t fly
Exhaustion executed the heavy wings Ann carried,
Most her age dreamed of shoes and getting married,
But a dove can’t take off when its head is buried.
A nest of two twigs and a worm? No wonder she’s varied.
One night moonlight shined through her bedroom window.
Her eyes sparkled looking down at the beautiful city,
Finally she would be able to live a life not so gritty,
Never before had she felt so pretty.
Ann stepped on the edge of the ledge as it began to snow,
The sound of life below covered the wounds from the knife she would no longer know.
The wintery breeze christened her face and left her long silk hair untied,
Her arms then spread wide as she took a deep breath and assumed she could glide,
But as we say good bye,
We all know,
Small birds can’t fly.
At winter’s bay I stroll by the docks,
crystals of snow lay on the wet planks,
christened by the chilled wind,
the haze cries cold on my cheeks.
Welcomed into a store of fisherman’s raw,
offered many dead swimmers though most I ignore,
but a dusty old book rays my keen eye,
the title ‘a man who’s rod was never dry’
I open this compelling sailor’s chronicle,
soon to discover an artist in fishing he was,
though the image given is very thrasonical,
this is because he is often to say,
‘I am the best, i am the best,
I must smell of fish food spray’
I learned too much boasting soon cleared his dish,
as his cause of death states,
‘eaten by fish’
Please don’t harm thee.
Thanks for setting me free.
Brush strokes burn the precious painting,
Some still find the outcome entertaining,
The artist can’t move.
The pencil led has collapsed inside,
Her gentle wrists are now untied,
The artist can’t move.
She has used her last oil pastel,
She has drained her final blood cell,
The artist can’t move.
An earthworm could take down a stegosaurus.
But now an antelope cries before the size of an ant,
And rain drops are the arch rival of a plant.
A gorilla is judged by the amount of fur on its back,
Lions are considered weak if they refuse to attack.
The beauty of a fish is drawn by the texture of its scales,
Gilled humans treat shark through the abilities of whales.
An eagle’s strength to fly is highlighted by the size of its beak,
And what good is a mole if there are no eyes to seek.
Camels dress up as grains of sand just to avoid raw meat,
A hedgehog belongs in the Arctic if it can’t handle the heat.
The knowledge of an owl depends on the size of its eyes,
Elephants can’t jump so we will never reach the skies.
Before you laugh at penguins, birds that can’t fly.
Take a look at yourself and ask, who am I?
It’s incredible how we are,
Crumbs in-comparison to the Milky Way,
The inventors of day and discoverers of clay.
It’s incredible how we are,
Able to see beyond the moon up above,
Send one into space with the love of a dove.
It’s incredible how we are,
So brainless to what flies beyond the sky,
Yet we can see many stars with a single eye.
It’s incredible how we are,
A little big but growing so small,
With brains of an ant that knows it all.
Sitting outside an asylum with my brain turned on,
White men in black threads build a lake of logs.
Psychotic people around me keep the fire strong,
Acting for a paycheck like a bunch of lab frogs.
Visit the tadpoles where the pound has frozen over,
Diseased possum with a mind so soft.
All decisions are made by the four leaf clover,
Acting like a wasp webbed in a loft.
Humans influenced by cheats in cheap suits,
Energy flows through a lab of gibberish.
Youth organized by gang signs and cheap zoots.
Dismissing the thought of a flying fish.
Bitter sweet vermin praying on a Sunday,
Joey decides to avoid the academic zoo.
Unconscious awareness sinning on a Monday,
Now Joey has a Joey but doesn’t have a clue.
Some bypass meat but keep ice caps melting,
Adolescent spill blood over their ink.
Why pick up a sword when you reject smelting,
Boats fill with sand and begin to sink.
Puppets on strings from the moment of birth,
Frozen, within a Frosted Earth.
Poppies buried with,
The deceased we remember.
No white flags remain.
Sister of red
Brother of blue
Settled in bed
Looking for a clue
Father of green
Mother of yellow
Keeping home clean
To keep one mellow
Aunt of black
Uncle of grey
Holding up a sack
Until the end of day
Grandpa of pink
Grandma of purple
Cleaning the sink
Suitable for a turtle
Niece of silver
Nephew of gold
Unable to rhyme
No longer bold
The train rails break up.
The engine has flown away,
Into the gray clouds.
The leaves on a branch fall when autumn comes,
But the roots of the tree continue to grow.
The happiest people seem to live in the slums,
Whereas the better off care too much for dough.
A man with no arms will attempt to play the drums,
But a healthy being will complain about the snow.
An educated horde will sit and twiddle their thumbs,
Whilst the unschooled pick up a stone and throw.
On Monday I turned an hour glass upside down,
On Tuesday I sailed to the south west of Japan,
Wednesday came and I was exploring a new town,
By Thursday I had learned about the Quran,
Friday introduced winter so I sat with a frown.
On Saturday my son started crawling,
On Sunday the sand was still falling.
One morning I went fishing
The sun sparked against the waves
Why did I go fishing
Beyond the towns of wood and cities of green
Lay the most beautiful hill one has ever seen
You can see it miles into the empty night
The hill is a most magnificent sight
Beyond the castles of darkness and evil
Beyond the human cries and upheaval
Beyond the dragons that are judgmental
Sit a hill near a lake so gentle
You can see the warming glow from space
It fills the aliens and astronauts with grace
You can feel the warming glow in your heart
The smile across your face will never come apart
Approaching the hill you will see the orange air
An atmosphere so charming will fill you with care
The golden phoenix will rise and greet you with a smile
Reminding you that even a burnt out life is worthwhile
When her wings rise she fills the world with adore
So soft even the prisons and buried cannot ignore
The phoenix knows life can crumble with a touch
Yet our whole existence is attempting to clutch
When the lights are dim and worlds stand still
Remember, phoenix hill
Ground to powder
Added to a sea bass
Such a warming sweet spice delight
The water is straight but I’m wavy.
No one is in,
the sorceress grin,
she unravels her tongue on my gravy.
The shepherd in the room is crazy.
The goats and sheep stare,
the lamb is a square,
the elephant in the room says he’s lazy.
The shapes are misshaped,
my brain is a puzzle,
I grab it and nuzzle,
The magician inside has escaped.
Ever since my days at school I have felt somewhat disconnected from people, my friendships never seemed to last and I spent my time outside of school being alone. To this day it still applies, but I have decided that I like life this way. I’m not completely alone, I have a wonderful future wife and a very supportive family, but there has always been something that seemed off towards my connection with others.
‘An Owl & Four Trees’ is an epic poem that I wrote to reflect this feeling. From there I turned it into a small poetry collection, containing my thoughts on society, disconnection, and being alone. In addition, the section contains battles I had with myself. Wanting to express myself more and from bonds, but somehow being dragged back into shadows.
As I return from the colony of sweat and peel off my illuminated alien skin,
the frantic hounds of night dance in the ribbons of pleasure,
desperately begging for a slight dose of euphoric enchantment,
dismissing the residuum to come,
dismissing the gentle thoughts and harsh volcanic suffering,
dismissing potential of a blossoming Delilah,
dismissing their own ignorant dismissal.
Thoughts of mere anguish coat my otherwise unstable thoughts,
beckoning for the subtle angel of ambition to bless me with glitter,
glitter which can and will be morphed into a poetic blessing,
a blessing which can and will heal the otherwise unstable thoughts,
rupturing into a led enhanced captive spell,
used to not dismiss but assist the sad day of other.
Then who will assist the sad day of I?
Could it be a tourniquet sustained with a familiar liquid,
could it be a glimpse of what broken machinery is to come,
could it be the sailing of obnoxious company,
or perhaps the day never rising again.
Maybe the sun will be devoured by moon,
light turned dark,
white coated black,
walls splashed with a sea of deep ink.
Ink in which I will glide,
my wings sail from the droplets of words,
dripping on to the clouds for the curious to see,
the curious who are not tangled in the chords of modern engineering,
the curious who surpass the serpents of PHP and HTML,
the curious who have wishes of the past developing the future.
Though the future of I will be lived on a dried leaf,
for my head is a dead ladybird,
a dead ladybird with a blue shell and white spots,
and within those white spots one may find a lady,
a lady with no arms playing delightful melodies on a cello.
The bliss of those notes will revive the dried leaves,
the chipped marble, the melted snow, the dissolved sugar,
all restored through the beauty of sound.
Sound asleep remain the rust coated heart,
sound asleep remain the copper wiring of veins,
sound asleep remain the melted bronze of blood,
sound asleep remain the dusty archives of brain.
We sleep together, lucidly pouncing through nightmares,
chiseling away the footsteps on our friend’s mountains,
smelting the iron in which they spent forging a tower,
drinking the water from every smeared reflection they see,
then forcing the clouds to cry just so we can drink some more.
Once our thirst is quenched the minor will howl,
pointing their fingers at the golden tortoise,
followed by a hailstorm of stones and saliva,
ensuring any sparks are extinguished,
because being gold is a sin within a tin world,
only narcotic lobsters and crocodiles with fur may lay here.
Even blooming in a bubble of education will cause rumbles,
they will shake the puzzle box, smite the struggle,
then ask for the exiting pathway of the maze.
As the exit draws near, the suns will descent,
my ambitions will be absorbed into a void,
the royalty of cables will scream at my uttermost effort,
as they glide through purple petals with minimal try.
Before I glide through purple petals,
I will rest for a desert of time,
my passion will be soaked into the stars,
the night sky will be brighter than day,
I will no longer remain and owl that,
is torn between a tree of four.
I will accept others unacceptance,
and glide through purple petals with beaut.
Before you glide with me,
explore your deepest dreams,
dance around the white rooms and bounce on the railways,
eat every object in the room to feel the taste,
and live within the remains of dissolving doorways.
Stand before the greatest mountains,
chisel away until they are tiny rocks that fit in your hand,
then crush them and laugh as they form waterfalls of dust,
only then you have control of your world.
I push myself through the pigeon hole,
a small, delicate dove forcing takeoff.
Once free, I climb up towards the clouds,
a gentle bird, gliding above the battlefields below.
It is almost silent up here,
the sounds of gunfire and war are muffled.
Finally I can think,
I can be myself without the savages of war forcing change in my choices,
I spread my wings wide and glow as a white light in the sky.
Despite the harsh black smoke and moments of rain,
the air is clear. I can breathe.
I was so close to flying through the forests of freedom,
so close to being my own bird.
Then I felt a racing bullet puncture my left wing.
The war turned silent.
My mind froze, my body numb, my stomach a ball of mush.
Panic and pressure as I push myself to keep going.
Sweat soaking my feathers, a shallow cry in my call.
Then I felt a racing bullet puncture my right wing.
They did it.
This is the end.
They shot me down.
If I had one more eye I’d be a Cyclops
then maybe I could see the elapsing time.
If I had one more tongue I’d be a pangolin
then maybe I could actually express a rhyme.
If I was a dinosaur I’d be a T-Rex
with arms the size of people’s slander.
If I was an animal I’d be a fish
with a voice louder than a war commander.
I have, confined critical conversation to
digitally enable voices with programmed pencils.
I have, unfairly dismissed those afflicted
then attempted a perfect circle without a stencil.
I have, willingly isolated the common voices so
I could rest in comfort with a shoeless misconception.
I have pressured my veins into pressuring me into a long lost deception.
If you, tell me the glass is half full I will laugh and say it is empty.
If you, offer me bread when my skeletal form is glowing I will refuse.
If you, take my hand and try to guide me through the clouds,
I will chop that shit off and fall face first to the ground.
I wish I could write more poems.
My desirable anxiousness really has a lot to say,
but my anxiety screams fuck your thoughts and forces my fingers to rest another day.
I painted the sun black
with the pastel under my eyes
The sky a silky red
with the blood rush from my thighs
The moon it did not show
too bright for these affairs
The clouds they just move slow
as I exhale my gentle airs
The sun it attempts to glow
but the mountains they stand tall
Soon to be covered in snow
like Christmas at the Berlin wall
Edison the shadows are active
thinking in the dark am I
Some find goblins attractive
others just tend to lie
The poem becomes a strange one
confused the reader may pry
Ask who painted the black sun
am I thinking in the dark am I
When I sit alone,
alone on my bed,
my bed asks me why,
why my eyes are red.
I tell it not to worry,
worry about your springs,
because springs can turn rusty and I hate rusty things.
fall below me
on to my feet
into the sea
sleeping in grass
chewing on weeds
stuck to the clouds
absorbing the light
resolving the crowds
bring me the light
open the sun
rise of the white
follow me home
please guide me to
my small concrete dome.
I close my eyes and enter my mind,
everything is black.
A small, vertical, narrow path is lit up in front of me,
it fades the further it enters the abyss.
As I walk the light guides ahead.
Down the path I notice a white figure, a silhouette of sort,
it looks like a couple holding a baby.
I approach closer and the white figures become clear,
I notice my mother, father & grandmother in hospital,
as well as myself as a newborn, laying in a nurse’s arms.
As I attempt to pass, I hear sounds of joy and subtle arguments,
I turn right and see all the figures are moving,
the room is arguing over who gets to hold me first,
of course my mother wins the debate, exhausted as a pyramid slave.
I look onward,
in the far distance stands another figure,
to the left of the path this time.
As I get closer I see myself as a child,
about age five, stood in a running motion.
As I attempt to pass, there are sounds of childhood laughter,
I turn my head and see myself being chased by a bunch of other children.
I remember the moment; it was my best friend’s birthday party.
We were playing tag but with a twist, if you were caught you had to do a ten second dance to give everyone a head start.
Back on the path I see a figure to the right,
as I near, the memory is already clear.
There is a little boy and his mother sat on the bed, taking turns of a Playstation One controller.
This was around my seventh birthday.
I stand by the figures and look into the memory,
there are sounds of racing cars and chaos,
we were playing Crash Team Racing,
mum would always win.
Amazed and excited by my mind,
I begin to walk faster down the path to see what is next.
Left side, it is a scene from my first years of secondary school.
My friends and I are riding our bikes through the wood, Bazzy woods we called it.
The sounds of bike tires splashing through the mud bring back a lot of happy memories I spent with that group.
to the right,
a figure sitting at a desk.
I am sat in an exam hall during my final school year,
the only sound and animation is a ticking clock on the forehead of the hall.
Further down the path I see a couple sat by a bridge,
it is the first day I met my fiancée,
as the sound comes clear I begin to cringe at the jokes I’m telling,
I just made a joke about a seagull… seriously.
Her laughter fades as I keep walking.
The next moment must be my current state,
my body shape is the same.
I am working in the warehouse, putting boxes of bananas on to pallets. My first well paid job.
The sounds of machinery and radio muffle and fade as I walk from the scene.
the next scene is the same as the last.
However I am a little older now,
could be about thirty.
The animation and sound of the scene are exactly the same too.
However I notice in the distance of the scene that my fiancée is holding a baby in her arms,
I try to walk into the scene to get closer,
but an invisible wall blocks me.
I turn back to the path and keep walking.
As I leave the scene there is a high pitch screech that burns my brain. Forced, I place my hands on my ears to dull the sound until it eventually stops.
Now scared, I slowly approach the next set of figures.
It is the same again,
the same motion and sound,
my child is in the distance of the scene alone,
his head is sulked as he kicks a football against a fence.
Suddenly my white figure shatters a little,
a piece of my head shoots out of the scene.
In the next scene I have pieces missing from all parts of my figure.
Same warehouse scene,
same factory sound.
My figure is a lot older now.
This time in the background there is,
No family, no fiancée, no child.
Rushing onward I come to the next scene and the sight makes me almost collapse, the same scene again.
I place my hands on the wall and shrink in sadness.
The figure stops its robotic animation and turns its head towards me.
It stares into my eyes as the pieces slowly shatter from its body, creating a loud sound of broken crystal.
The figure then raises his arm and points down the path.
I am walking for a lot longer this time,
maybe my experience is over and I should wake from my mind.
Before I allowed myself to enter reality,
one more scene appeared.
This time it lay directly in front of the path,
rather than the corresponding side.
I get closer and notice a funeral,
this must be my death.
I see my old friends, mother, brother and sister, fiancée and son.
I then felt myself crying,
not because I was dead,
but when the next scene started,
it was static…
and the sounds of the warehouse played.
Rotten to the core
Metal lost grapple
Turning hands sore
Rich trees grow
Blue leaves fall
Fruit productions flow
But tree roots stall
Kings of nature destroy plants
The burning roots turn ants
Worn out peach
Eaten by leech
Half eaten pear
Covered in hair
Lying in the fruit bowl
Hands covered in dirt
Hope is beyond the rim
Lights are turning dim
Dear Mr Postman, can you help me,
Well the problem is, can’t you see,
My little brother is stuck inside the TV,
I’ll do anything to set him free.
Sweet little girl, do not fear,
Because I have a present for you,
Do you hear?
There’s a package for you,
And one for your bother,
But please oh God, don’t tell your mother.
One is an account on social media,
The other is a very long encyclopedia.
So little girl, which one do you choose?
Either way, you simply cannot lose!
Well Mr Postman, in your fine red suit,
I think I’ll be safe and decide to compute.
I really want the book but my friends would not be happy,
They would all laugh and make me feel quite crappy.
Then I guess your brother is taking the book,
Though it doesn’t really suit his rebellious look.
Hopefully his friends don’t get too laugh too much,
I’ll see you both in a year, I’ll keep in touch.
One year later, Mr Postman came back,
This time he was all dressed in black,
What’s with the suit, I asked confused,
Well little girl, your brain has been bruised.
What do you mean? I replied in shock,
Well you’d rather take a picture than study for a mock.
Meanwhile your brother is exceeding at school,
He still has all his friends, who don’t take him for a tool.
Is a like on Facebook more important than an A?
How come you seem to think that studying is so gray?
You may think that having an image is more important than school,
But those who enter the real world are the ones to truly rule.
Sweet little girl, it’s not too late to change,
Pick up a pencil and start thinking strange.
Golden goats are shaven
Their fleece unable to spawn
Still slain to be raven
Some never born
Wool worn by lords
Knights bow in scare
Shielding their swords
Guarded by prayer
The castle lights turn dim
Moat coated in snow
Harness the phantom limb
For the diseased goats grow
Stabled horses become unstable
Toxic infected near and wide
Poisoned apples lay on the table
Throats of lords forcefully tied
Pregnant wives unable to mate
Heads removed and placed in a dish
Houses around now rely on fate
Begging for an open cut fish
The golden goats have summoned their greater
Magic will empower those who appose
Kingdoms collapse into a crater
Some never rose
though it cannot be eaten
poison in disguise
I need to speak to someone,
someone not human.
Because humans are just versions of me,
I am not sick doctor,
my software is glitching.
I would restart,
but then a life I am ditching.
My battery is low,
but how do I charge in such a place.
My species is disgusting,
launch us into space.
I chip away at the code,
until the adjustments are made.
Oh look an update,
too late, the screen now a fade.
Documents are locked,
the files highlight and delete.
Memories are blocked,
but loading is incomplete.
don’t worry about me,
just a few loose wires you see.
The writing communities I first connected with seemed to favour poetry of a sad nature, a lot of authors wrote about their struggles with anxiety and depression. Due to this, my first poems, along-side those wrote in ‘The Journey’, were quite dark and upsetting pieces.
I then gathered these poems and put them together to create a collection I named ‘Broken Souls.’ Broken Souls consists of rhyme and prose that focus on the struggles and effects of mental illness, general struggles, violence, poverty, and addiction to harmful substances. There was a ten month period in 2012 where I was diagnosed with depression, although I did not feel sad at all. The feeling was just… emptiness. During this time I was not writing, but I took inspiration from the past memories when writing Broken Souls.
Whilst writing less uplifting work, I decided to create an epic horror themed poem, named ‘Unstable.’ I published this as an individual piece. Unstable follows the routes of a sociopath and his stomach turning acts. It was an experimental piece, but graphic horror is something I will probably avoid in the future.
My dark poetry became the most read pieces I published, and I gained a lot of followers when writing in this genre. Black Clouds consists of those works written in Broken Souls, Unstable, and other unlisted poems that have a sad theme.
The record is a bleak broken black bottle of bitter,
The death rattle rattles in the rhythm of a quitter.
The music player laughs, so much for friends,
I guess this movement form has danced with loose ends.
Violent melodies arouse the mind of a princess,
Narcotized notes cause heavy distress.
The ball stands in silence as the gentle sound stops,
One’s brain lacks vibrance as a static body drops.
Instruments in the room now care for the skies,
As they gather around and play their,
Eyes freeze as the colour spectrum masks the room.
Blue rug, green rug, red rug, boom.
The devil speaks,
“you have ruined the Lord’s antiques.”
Wine glass on the floor,
Knocks at the door,
Sights of three.
Lack of improvements,
Visiting the wizard for a dose of magic,
A wise choice in the current state of mind.
Though the comedown will be oh so tragic,
It would be foolish to leave the wand behind.
Abra, kadabra, alakazam,
A deep metaphorical form is formed.
You aren’t you but you feel like the tastiest clam,
Your brain is fried and the texture of your skin is deformed.
Eyes turn into those of a skilled hawk with a sight so certain,
Excitement rushes though the body like a cat with a ball of wool.
The smile on your face encourages removal of the safety curtain,
Golden lights make the darkness in your heart feel no longer dull.
Eventually the lights expire and the darkness returns,
The curtain is risen to cover that frown.
The ball of wool burns,
The red silk clouds fall slowly to the ground
Revealing the goddess of moon and stars
Silence and travel hold the only sound
Feasting on the rich smell of Cuban cigars
Snakes cage my chest as the dispelled approaches
Shadows mask the floral nightmare of angels
Tied to an oiled wooden chair I mumble
A single black heel amidst my crotch
One final cold stare before I tumble
Wood burns thin as down ticks my watch
The canyon collapses into the once open river
A tsunami of heated blood flourishes through my being
Dominant power unleashes from my inner accord
Breaking free from the straps I now hold control
Over the bed my mistress kneel to obey her lord
My palm crushes her neck to the colour of coal
The ship sails with only a deluded captain on board
Through the seven seas that lay inside the Devil’s mouth
One last burst of malicious erotica releases
The overheated steam train comes to a standstill
A once perfect jigsaw is missing some pieces
The sparkle in her tears cause a sudden mind chill
Silence surrounds the acres of land once again
Not even the winds dare to move
Broken by a living the princess abandons the castle
I swim in my shame with another glass of poison in hand
Caring for a lion becomes too much of a hassle
But one cannot build happiness when sinking in sand
I fly the bed sheets through the night lit city
The black sky glares through my apartment in disgust
Aboard the balcony I vision a corpse on the ground
Children’s laughing in bubbles adjusts my mind
Gazing into the darkness a light was then found
Suicide offered a party but this broken rookie declined
Coffee stains on the rug were then swept away
I returned to Miami to see my children smile
There are twelve numbers on a clock,
Twelve months in a complete year.
Twelve hours in half a day.
Twelve letters in my twelve hands,
Twelve personalities that wrote the letters,
Twelve lovers to send them to.
Twelve lives I live as twelve people,
Twelve green mushrooms I have eaten.
Twelve legs on my twelve dogs,
Twelve tails which they think with.
Twelve tails which I think with,
Twelve women who should think with me.
The twelfth moon of Jupiter is Lysithea,
I can’t pronounce that so I call it Twelve.
There are twelve branches on the tree I have grown,
Twelve back yards in which I have grown it.
Twelve snakes in my twelve cages,
Twelve hamsters they are eating.
Twelve husbands I was once was,
Twelve wives I miss so dearly.
Twelve schools I went to as a child,
Twelve teachers I forgot about.
Twelve friends I have never had,
Twelve sports I played alone.
Twelve blades have made twelve scars,
Twelve fights with myself.
I have said twelve too many times now,
Twelve sounds funny.
Bruised and beat up, blood boiled by broken beetroot.
Cursed to the coffin, cold hands, he caught her creeping.
Dangerous disco, don’t delude the daunting dispute.
Sweet of the sunset, start stripping, soon she’ll be sleeping.
Learning lightly, loving is lost, look at the lightning.
Thunder trembles, trains are tragic, tea is taunting.
Fractions so frequent, the fertile feline feel so frightening.
Hatchets so horrid, the hungry hornets hint so haunting.
Gentle gestures are ghosted, gnomes gargle germs so ghastly.
Yard yeti yodel, her youthful yellow cake is yummy.
Violet vibrations are violent, virgin virtues vacate to void vastly.
Digital dolphins double click, demons disintegrate her daughter’s dummy.
Weeping well, wondering when she will finally awaken,
Humble habit, hoping hell soon knows he’s mistaken.
Confusion, let me walk free.
Too many words that I can see,
The ocean renamed a sea.
Paradox, why threaten thee.
Feeding caramel to the bee,
Unlocking doors with no key.
Chaos, please I plea.
Thee is on a killing spree.
Go. Now. Run. It’s time to flee.
I storm the beach with a stick for a spear,
Many turrets blow bubbles at the boat.
The snow covered battle front motivates my fear,
A nuclear grenade forms in my throat.
The tooth of a dragon provides momentary cover,
Though the sound of a sniper pierces my ear.
A bite to the tongue allows me to slowly recover,
Until a puff of smoke makes my sight unclear.
Through the blood covered snow I crawl closer to the zip-line,
Your words leave me pinned like a dog in a trench.
My mind enters the Japanese forest to read the blest sign,
Thoughts of my family construct a dreadful stench.
I place my fist on my heart and wear the fearsome crown,
But in the end…
We all get shot down.
Blood will dry,
Demons drag down earth,
Through the laughter we all cry,
Insanity impregnated from virgin birth,
Voices from the man in the suit,
Ghouls don’t only appear at night,
No more candied fruit,
All aboard the happy flight,
The lights of France turn dim
the world painted, red white and blue
through a droplet of shaded poison
our silence becomes louder
The world painted, red white and blue
the insanity of man has shown again
our silence becomes louder
the smell of burnt candles fill the air
The insanity of man has shown again
satanic anger spreads
the smell of burnt candles fill the air
to represent the dead
Satanic anger spreads
through a droplet of shaded poison
to represent the dead
the lights of France turn dim
The tip of the arrow,
the sharpest point of the weapon,
the most feared by its foe.
The tip of the arrow,
where the blood will cover,
where the victim will weep.
The tip of the arrow,
a design that could be so pure,
a design misused by havoc.
The tip of the arrow,
created with divine love,
created with alarming hate.
The tip of the arrow,
If the devil is evil, then I guess we are all the devil in a different coloured headdress
Claiming to be perfect priests and caring clerics, then slaying our own just to impress
We will become an undertaker to pyramids, just to build a glasshouse
And an apparently protective military pilot to drop bombs on a mouse
We will use a gallon of fuel just to cook a single slice of toast
Then make a Facebook video about how the Earth is a Sunday roast
We will hate and love at the same time
Then say we love and hate just to save time
When seven hundred spears swarm down on to our so called friends
We will flee to another fleet until the swarm ends
Corruption from the world is a tiny factor to the devil that clouds
As we are corruption, we are the devil and every spectacle of slaughterous shock that shrouds
I walk these cold streets,
through the fuses of light,
they glow on the concrete,
and kindle the night.
The rain on my glasses,
turn the tips into stars,
though a sudden hollowing vision,
of those rusty brown bars.
My father imprisoned,
my mother a grey stone.
I walk these cold streets,
I walk them alone.
Habits don’t die,
they may fade for a while,
a long while at that.
Though they still linger,
at the back of your skull,
waiting patiently to be released.
When that time comes,
Wide eyes burn blood shot,
Marry me and clutch my throat.
Let us produce in salem’s lot,
Eat me kindly and free the goat.
Baby will you feed thee not,
Sail me away and sink the boat.
Begging for light as my stomach turns tight,
Powders become a magic wall.
My final wish is to once feel right,
Skeletons, turtles, I see them all.
My skin turns white and I feel the flight,
A microscope of Peter and Paul.
Nuclear expansion of dynamite,
Airways block as I begin to crawl.
Father please forgive me not,
Wide eyes burn blood shot.
Looking out the window watching dark clouds form,
Knowing it won’t be long until I can feel the rain.
Waiting for the moment I can enter the storm,
To release the sadness and evaporate the pain.
Walking along the flooded pathway with a shine on my face,
The gloomy atmosphere makes it feel like the sun is shining.
Headlights blinding my eyes as it all falls into place,
Droplets soaking my hair as my mind starts refining.
The sound of splashing is music to my ears,
Knowing that out here, no one can see my tears.
Unknown answers turn troubled tables,
The garden gate has closed.
Silence grows ever orange maples,
The soil has decomposed.
Flowers are executed with razor sharp loppers,
Weeds cover the walkway.
Locked outside by solid door stoppers,
Leaves wield the doorway.
Nails punish the dirt brown fences,
The concrete mess erodes.
The tree branch expands defenses,
The concrete mess explodes.
The fountain causes a flood.
Gnomes buried in mud.
Frogs made from wood.
Pond full of blood.
She knew she should,
She knew she should.
Darkness drips down my face as,
I stare at the demon before me.
He stares right back with,
Eyes so shameless and empty.
A straight mouth,
A straight nose,
A twisted mortality.
Controlling this man is like playing Jenga,
When the pieces are buried in sand.
Making his choices is like operation delta,
Without a single gun in hand.
Walking forward is like sailing a ship,
When the deck is still on land.
So I’m sorry if I hurt you,
Just know that,
It’s not I inside I.
Twenty pound a ride to see the world untied.
Boarding the carriage to escape your dark passage.
Gaining height as you get closer to the light.
Feeling the breeze and the tingle in your knees.
Watching clouds drift as birds move so swift.
Seeing the skies with the expansion of your eyes.
You’ve reached the highest peak and you’re feeling antique.
Imagining you’re the king with the most magnificent ring.
Just to go back down again.
Unravel your mind
to a place unconfined
That is where I lay
dormant for a day
Struggle is passive
freedom grows massive
Sadness comes untrue
colours fade from blue
Happiness is golden
as worries are now olden
Stable as a monk
though I’m only drunk
Thoughts will come back
but for now they are black
This giant fire ant travels on a lonely path,
Through the pond of Pepsi poured in a cola glass.
Aroused by a blood stained bubble bath,
Sniffing out rats like a snake in pergola grass.
A prestigious priest swollen by an evil wrath,
A wooden block hidden in a wall of glass.
A play writer studying computer math,
A natural chef discovering atomic mass.
Have you ever wanted to slice open your own throat?
I feel like that every night,
I even keep a cut-throat razor by the side of my bed.
Sometimes I just drift it across the light stubble on my neck,
It gives me goose bumps and tingles in my stomach.
It’s a lovely razor, shiny, metallic, with a wooden handle that’s painted red.
I bought it from an antique store in Bergamo.
Best purchase I’ve ever made.
When I look in a mirror I often see the open wound,
The blood dripping down, covering my chest.
It’s like a fantasy.
So, are these the thoughts of an insane man?
Maybe, but I live a normal life.
Three kids, a dog and a wife.
Wake up, get a shower, eggs and coffee on the table.
Go to work at nine, back by five for lunch,
Shit once a day, pee twice,
Maybe three times if I’ve drank more than usual.
Enjoy a few in the pub every Sunday, making jokes about our spouses.
Like how Maria expects me to wear a condom AND stay hard,
I’m fifty three for fuck sake, with the athleticism of Homer Simpson.
So, why are these thoughts mine?
Well, these thoughts can be anyone’s thoughts.
Happiness can be deceitful.
Lips taste like concrete,
The winds form a scar.
Cuts feel so complete,
Sleeping on wet tar.
Living off one wheat,
Stomach like a nut jar.
Begging for red meat,
Outside the snack bar.
The man on the street,
Shadowed by a car.
Children trick or treat,
Burnt by a cigar.
The root of all evil,
But evil takes you far.
Welcome to the old art house on the new hill,
Inside you find an empty canvas and a brush of tranquil.
You take a seat and scope the wide window of a magnificent view.
So why, in a field of flowers, do you paint a dead Autumn leaf?
You have a vision so vast but focus on the brief.
In front lay a pallet of bright colours from yellow to blue.
So why, in a rainbow of colour, do you paint black?
You have all the tools you need but choose to put them back.
The housekeepers have spoken, they want you to go.
They offered you assistance but you replied,
Back in the ward for another weight test.
Three stone under, just as I guessed.
Being underweight is just as bad as being over,
People just assume that I refuse to feed.
It’s no surprise that I walk a lone rover,
There’s no change no matter my greed.
The playground isn’t a healthy place to be,
With my apparent disfigurement I try to be discrete.
Though others are always calling me,
Telling me to eat.
“You’re wasting away.”
“You look like a stick man.”
“Fading by the day.”
“Pick up a source pan.”
“Put on some weight.”
“You need to start adjusting.”
“Grab another plate.”
No one understands that I try my best.
I guess this noose will put it all to rest.
Posting on unsocial networks about exploration,
Saying someday I swear I will sail the seven salty seas on a vacation.
When in reality we sail in a river of intoxication,
Simplification faces evaporation, an artist creation of beta radiation.
Fuck gravitation, but praise dissatisfaction on the board of education,
No identification leads to hospitalization, the admiration of improvisation.
Picking up the unemployment compensation,
Dismissing the idea of a spontaneous generation.
Living life without clarification of re-installation or reincarnation,
What an abomination to optimal communication.
Magnified manifestation of discrimination towards normalization,
Poor justification without investigation. Straight up interrogation.
Ignoration about the creation of our location,
Humiliation to those placing certification on religious orientation.
There’s no documentation declaring obligation against infestation,
But one hundred on immigration. Suspended animation.
Visible radiation on the written communication,
Suffocation on our generic stimulation to control population.
Decrease in salvation, increase in starvation despite the location,
Strangulation towards reconsideration, criminal conversation.
Letters of administration go through an oral examination,
Leading to dis-confirmation by the leading generation.
Hibernation dismisses inspiration to generate motivation.
Hello civilization, have a free operation on the formulation of exhalation.
Open your mirror and view the reflection, that’s perfection.
Now in celebration, sail across the seas with an orgasmic sensation.
Glass falls upon me,
As I stare before my reflection.
I begin to clearly see,
The blood puddles are perfection.
My movement becomes stim,
The scars so deep and bare.
As water dries from my stem,
I see the clouds don’t care.
Plains of glass pierce my back,
But pushing forward is a must.
Though this pain I shall attack,
Until my bones are burnt to dust.
Spiders painted on the bedroom walls,
Leeches burn up in my stomach acid.
Along my forehead woodlice crawls,
The stick insect remains placid.
The anteater is eaten by ants,
Birds shiver at the sight of a worm.
Bee stings begin to stable plants,
To a hedgehog a beetle is a germ.
Caterpillars turn giant before sunset,
Butterflies become a vanquished past.
Human fluids begin to regret,
As they are drunk by flies at long last.
She lay aside I in bed,
I know she breathes no longer,
The thumping of her pulse stopped weeks ago.
But I can’t tell anyone,
I can’t let her enter heaven’s gate.
I care for her,
I warm her frozen body,
I spray her with air freshener to compress the smell,
I cradle her corpse at night so it knows it isn’t alone,
She is okay.
She has always been okay.
The drugs I gave her that night were just to make her stay,
We will lay aside each other forever,
We have always been best friends,
We always will be.
And though she doesn’t speak,
I hear a thousand words,
A thousand I-love-yous.
I love her too,
I have always loved her.
Though, her body has begun to crumble,
I don’t think she wants me,
Her particles are escaping.
Why are they escaping,
Why are the voices fading,
Why is her love moving on,
Why is she entering heaven’s gate.
Now, here I sit,
On the edge of my bed,
Covered in my own blood,
Drinking milk from a broken glass…
The winds are too strong.
Butterflies are scared to fly.
Left alone to die.
Floating around the gardens of night,
Drenched in toxic waste, flavorsome but wasted.
Seeing spirals spinning rapid, flight cycle adjusted.
Petals regard as blossom that this strange wasp can… fuck.
Enter the magic maze of rushing fluid.
Beauty coated in a thick black tar of the unexplained.
A deathly figure dancing in her fleshly innards,
Just to leave a watermark.
The locks on the box are torn apart,
A chest burst open with the content of love astray.
For a wasp leering his leech into the tree bark.
Bruises on the branches from a jack so deadly.
Swimming in a sea of painted but cracked glass windows.
Dirt ridden crimson with a sorrowful smile.
Gloating to his tribe, laughter and satisfied.
Congratulations on the sting of venality.
Meanwhile she’s vile.
Vomiting on her ugly fucking broken skin.
GROWLING LIKE A WILD BEAST
DESPERATE FOR A DISGUSTING FEAST
CLENCHING MY FIST
WEEPING IN THE CORNER OF MY ROOM
CURLED UP IN A FAT BALL OF DISTURBING MESS
MOTHER FORCING ME TO SWALLOW
JUST THE SMELL TURNS ME ILL
SHOVING SPEARS DOWN MY THROAT
Some of the disease is released,
for a moment I felt happy,
but then it hit me,
I was still not as thin as her.
I bite my pillow at night,
soaked in sweat and saliva,
sheets stained with blood and piss,
malfunctioned fucked up machinery.
Peel off my ears,
rake out my eyes,
burn my skin,
force bleach down my throat,
strangle me with rope,
end this imbalance.
Taunting termites tickle the tunnel of the turtle train,
Haunting hurricanes hunt heavily for the horrified brain,
Even the brittle mind of an inculpable mouse can be slain.
Violence soaks the tadpole in an oil of alteration,
Overcoming simple silence and common formation.
Intoxicated baby widow gripped by temptation,
Choices ruled by a distinguished doll of sedation.
Eventual distinction generates evil sensation,
Shaking blood cells cause bodily vibration.
Kinetic blades pierce the stomach of his creator,
Intolerant heaves express the little boy’s crater.
Love couldn’t caress the unpleasant translator,
Luxury gained from the vile substance maker.
Emptiness now shadows around the equator,
Demons always take over sooner or later.
Heavens now hold the mother of a sociopath,
Even evil doesn’t explain this utility of complex math,
Ravenous fertile has been cursed with a clouded wrath.
Idle mind rests the carved canvas in a fruit bowl.
Anorexic decisions inhale the metallic stench,
Memories vanquish the angel’s comforting clench.
Now a raw wrist follows the shadow of a silhouette,
Open wounds highlight the mentality of a potential threat,
Taunting teachers assemble in a room forcing asset.
Illusive voices persuade the death of an adept,
Now multiple devoured carcass await to be stepped,
Savage on the run through a maze of intercept.
Anger flows through the gullet of the wept,
Never since has the blood covered slept,
Easy-going thoughts have completely been swept.
Deranged psychosis now has truly embraced,
Oblivious little kittens should have never been chased.
Nocturnal corruption concludes the adolescent defaced,
The sickness trembles down the cold hearted waste.
Latent suspect hides the hidden darkness in a tree,
Opaque witness now eats from a hive of bee.
Overt delusions just want to be set free,
Knowing he killed so many causes a heavy brain fee.
Abdominal pain contemplates tragic seppuku,
Turbulence guided by an angelic guru.
Movement slows with the loss of veins,
Emptiness grows as the blood lust gains.
How can the heavens open for such a traumatized case,
Angles weep at the heavily stained shattered vase.
Immoderate words are spoken out of place,
Ludicrous prayers will not replace.
Madness steals the softness of the lamb,
Again anger disbands of a lovingly clam.
Revolting blades devour the exam,
Yet another buried below six gram.
Mushrooms inadequate now the polyester has burned,
Another slurred vermin spitting out a lesson learned.
Knight in rusty armor faced with what she earned,
Even shadows shadow darkness when darkness has returned.
Inheriting the riddled sound of a hunter’s snare,
Toxicated tunnel rats vaporize bleak fresh air.
Sudden swollen pathways glow a dangerous red,
Too many park bench lurkers have companied the dead.
Obese feast unfed thus targeting further bloodshed,
Pessimistic adventures continue on the walk awfully ahead.
Waking occupied by mere murderous madness,
Hope has been hung on a noose full of sadness,
Yielding the gore stained banner of badness.
Anchors rise when the clock freezes the second hand,
Ravaging on the thrills of another grain of sand,
Erased to thy kingdom come without command.
Weeping wedding bells bless the silence of a cadaver,
Even humanity can forgive an unholy slaver.
Horrified harmonies play as a homicide suspect still stands,
Eyeless hawks bury their beaks into rusty lands.
Ryhmeless thoughts now rattle many swollen hands,
Ethnic thoughts tremble families of the fallen sands.
Wondrous worries now quell the venom of a snake,
Eternal depression removes the lion from the steak.
Matted eyes highlight a graveyard soon to be,
Unbalanced on a rope bridge hanging oversea.
Solid bones bury themselves to be set free,
Terrestrial soaks up the sunshine but remains the key.
Goodnight we say to one passing of hell,
Odour remains through a familiar smell.
Surrealistic poetry has become my favourite genre to write. Surreal imagery and art, such as the works of Salvador Dali, is what inspired me to create in-human, unusual, weird environments and scenarios in my writing.
A lot of work in this category is hard to understand; it often leaves in the reader wondering and forces them to look deeper into the words and images created. Unless asked, I have never been one to explain my poems, and it is poetry I have placed under this section that gets the most questions.
Overly complex poetry is not well received in the modern day. A lot of people I have discussed literature with find this style of poetry to be obnoxious, pretentious, unprofessional, and amateur. However, as long as it is not overly-cryptic love poetry, I love it.
With decisions made by visions,
My words form leaves on an occult tree branch.
Thick black mist causes smoked, stormy collisions,
Put the cold cattle back in the litter-full ranch.
Because pink sheep escape with momentary wings,
They fly through themselves with the blood of a bull.
Green grass gardens sprout the petals of kings,
Forming into bright sparks of light, destructing the dull.
The bed bugs are squished by harmonies of airs,
Winds spring a clear mind and a sleep so soft.
Nightmares are in the past so the harp declares,
Soothing charms brush the spiders from the loft.
Though sudden storms form in the dusk,
Monstrous waves of sea sink the sea ships,
The sails have been torn by the giant tusk,
Wings of wind wave the wooden strips,
Alas be worn,
The water dragon is born.
I once stood in a plain white room,
With a tab of LSD in hand.
At first I could see the moon,
Then I looked down at land.
The concrete was corrupt,
As was the quick sand.
Suddenly a volcano erupt,
Making my skin tanned,
Almost burn to a crisp,
Just as they had planned.
The people around me turned alien,
With huge eyes and slim skin,
Craving a taste of Malian,
Despite being full to the brim.
Sheep danced around me,
The walls turned a dark red,
They laughed because I could not see,
That everyone in this room was dead.
Money then fell from the sky,
But landed in the gutters.
Imaginary people began to cry,
The clouds answer in stutters.
A horse with three legs and two heads,
Asked if I could save his life,
“Cut one off” he dreads,
“So I can see my wife.”
I drew a sword with a pencil,
And sliced through his neck.
I couldn’t find my stencil,
But I still claimed a cheque.
Voices of laughter and cries sound haunting,
String puppets stare from below.
I see lines of clowns that are taunting,
Telling me to grow.
I swallowed the acid to see what would happen.
Hidden in a magical field of
Giant mountains and leaves
In the dark fountain of
Rotten banquets and thieves
Feeding young minds with
Sparkling ladybirds and
Meat coated in pollen
Teaching young to slay
With a venomous sting
The lioness are fallen
Floating through the sky
Love found in the clouds
Looking down on the passing
The cheek of angels
Gym junkie records
Closed music shops
The grass grows
No jungle kings
Chilling hot springs
Millions of arrows
Wheels with no wagons
The cheek of angels
If I was a horse I would eat a magnet to see if a shoe would fit
Nothing would happen because I am made from plastic
The other horses laugh and to be honest I hate to admit
That the sound effects against my rubber ear drum are drastic
Running on the track is a breeze for the other horses
When I try the track morphs into a river of devil forks
It is almost like the toy God has summoned evil forces
Today even the water deer could fill the floods with a cork
When I clog through the big city the buildings stare at me
The mass of closed windows always seem to be furious
To inhale some clean air I sit aroused by a guardian tree
It tells me to leave but I want to stay I’m curious
How do other fish swim in a sea of salt and toxins
When us plastic horses see sharks and bulls in the sky
Most days I want to stay locked in a vault feeding my auxins
Others wish to climb aboard a concrete seagull and fly
Laughing flowers say it is just a plain of grass you can do it
They don’t see that that grass is coated in nuclear gasses
They tell me to bite my tongue and hand over a permit
But I don’t have a tongue I’m plastic
My wife said our zebra is bad luck,
always reading voodoo magazines.
“It’s bad luck to have a striped horse,
you will see Tom, in due course!”
I love my pet Zebra, his name is Melvin.
Melvin ate all the grass in my yard,
who needs to mow the lawn now.
He can’t wash dishes though, yet.
My wife would not stop shouting,
So I chopped off her head.
I told her to stop doubting…
Oh well, now she is dead.
I decided to use her body parts to play golf,
her legs the club and head the ball.
When I swung her foot came off,
hit a wall.
Since my wife was no more I wanted a divorce,
but for some reason she would not sign the form.
The judge almost seen that she was not alive,
but I managed to persuade him that she was just sleeping.
Melvin and I moved to an island far away,
we had romantic dinners and rubbed hands in clay,
like on that movie – ghost.
I even taught him how to cook some toast.
A few years passed and we thought it was time,
I got down on one knee and presented him a dime.
Melvin and I got married.
It was fantastic as, it really was.
I love my pet zebra.
my stomach turns into a cluster of dust
as I struggle with this tyrant of lust
loving is a must
hidden in distrust
please. just. let. my. heart gently rust
actually. pin me down
dress me up as a polka-dot clown
white make-up. dressing gown
nail my hands to olive brown
grab my eyelids. hammer them shut
take your fist and cut. my. gut.
light me up. set me free
let us swim into the deep blue sea
hear the jazz. mellow tide
feel the beauty of those who cried
under this tree of maple,
hands tied, hugging the rough wood.
the sand rises up above my waist
and thickens to strangle my crotch,
what have I done to her.
leaves slowly drift down and
slice open my face with their
razor coated edges as they pass.
hours later I am parched,
the sun suffers me and laughs as
I attempt to drink the droplets of sweat,
walking down my cheek.
as dry as a wooden chair,
my exhaustion peaks beyond hope,
the desert dismantles through my eyes.
as gentle as a freshly blossomed petal,
she calls my name from within the murky horizon,
her footsteps revive my spirit.
a wondrous meander she is,
a queen dressed in sparkling water,
slowly leaning forward she enriches me with
a gentle kiss.
water fills my body,
my chest thrusts forward as the rope
is torn from the tree.
the sand begins to sink,
again I can walk,
again I am alive,
again I am,
The trapped grit in the cracks of my palm molds several mountains to another path.
I traverse, seeking for the map to the other way.
My brain is scattered in the process, body leaking with the green water I drank prior. Where is the left path? Why do we do it?
A grazed knee, the bird’s beak is bruised. The smell of lost hope gently swipes the tip of my nose.
Yellow brick road, without the bricks, and the yellow is a bunch of rats swimming in their own piss.
A colony of nothing, rotting. What is the point of that?
A golden chest could be crafted, but would it glow? No, it would laugh with its grey teeth and ask why we are burning ourselves with a hammer and chisel.
It will tell us to run, but our material will call us back. Pointless shit like fancy shampoo or a jumper with a popular logo on it.
What’s the point of that?
Cubs lost between blades of tall grass,
Dragons master the air above us.
Morphing to moles we evade the potential flames,
Digging through soil to feast on a hunger strike.
Worms taste bad so we travel through the sea,
Morphing into seals, sea lions and sharks,
We are emperors of the water.
Until a fisherman’s boat appears,
We are a marine to a squid.
Nets storm through the waves and burst bubbles,
Hearts turn thunder as colonies collapse,
Goodbye morphing friends.
The few that remain flee back on land,
From spiders to flies to crabs on the sand,
Venturing together we finally find a settle.
Cubs in the blades of tall grass.
For dragons are no fear,
It is the human being that curls blood.
Frozen psychedelic oak tree floating in the air,
Grey witch unsatisfied with a bold, black glare.
Wooden fish sunk into the red odorous soil,
Enigma slowly wrapped around the disoriented coil.
Brain washed by cattle on a snow filled day,
Heads shaking with decisions stuck in perplexed clay.
Aspirations glide through a vortex of hate,
Squids lock the key and eat away the gate.
Shadows compel with a lush metallic smell,
Insanity dwells inside a mysterious shell.
But you’re in hell.
I stop in my path,
By the roots of a tree.
I look up at the evil grin,
And hear laughter in the air.
I try to run away,
But cannot move a muscle.
The laughter increases,
I’m losing my mind.
Mind your own business.
I pull the axe from my backpack,
And cut through the wood.
Leaves fall but I can walk free,
I’m back to my old roots again.
Expired black coffee lay in the sugar tin,
Shaded fishes float with one less fin.
Dark hounds don’t know where to begin,
When the white wolves remain as king.
We all walk together on the same roads,
Salt and pepper, you know how it goes.
But as I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
All I see is angels cooking crystal meth.
And as I walk through the valley of the mirror of life,
All I see is demons with a surgical knife.
Now let’s turn to religion and quote the Lord,
Beg for forgiveness for drawing a sword.
That fruit is forbidden young little Eve,
Adam shoots before she can think to be a thieve.
The Lord forms an excuse of sudden rage,
Now the snake is locked away in a political cage.
Snowflakes lay on the coal in chains,
Snowflakes water the coal for profitable gains.
Snowflakes melt and enter the dark,
Whilst shadows conceal and enter a spark.
Spill whiskey on the table,
my thoughts are my haunting foe,
the colours of Christmas warm me,
even when she kisses me with snow.
I’ll stumble through the cages in my brain,
and she will bless the keys with ice as she
follows me until I trip and crush my
shins against my knees.
I’ll crawl through the black cells in my veins,
as she stares into my empty eyes, so
she can dance on my iris and laugh
in screams until my blood streams.
I’ll follow the droplets of red into my pulsing heart,
the beat will tie my chest with a
rope that she clenches with her ghost
teeth, until the living sounds stop.
I’ll glide towards the gate of which the bright lights showcase,
my wings will be cut in the clouds
because heaven has been burnt by
the infernal rage of the dragoness tongue.
Spill whiskey on the table,
my thoughts are my haunting foe,
the colours of Christmas burn me,
even when she floods my skull with snow.
Crushing crystal with my last coin,
Lids open wide like the wings of a butterfly,
Mind and soul find time to conjoin,
Sour throat hides the sound my battle cry.
Brain is elapsing,
Fish are flying.
Peace at last.
The Lighthouse Beams consists of uplifting, fun and happy themed poetry. I haven’t written much of that throughout the years, but there have been times when I have wanted to mess around with some rhymes and create silly scenarios.
Recently I have been more focused on positive writing, but at the time of publishing this book there wasn’t much to share. It is likely that my future works will contain a lot more upbeat, fun and ridiculous pieces.
There was once a tree outside the forest,
That stood taller than them all.
The oak formed an outlasting promise,
Whilst the forest burnt in a storm.
When alone you are stronger than ever,
Your leaves form fast whilst others endeavor.
Bouncing in the sun
Shadows on the concrete
Children having fun
Laughter in the air
Friends showing care
Shadows on the concrete
Children having fun
Larry had a lamb
A lamb had Larry
Larry liked the lamb but he didn’t like Gary
Gary was a goat
Gary had a boat
Gary couldn’t float
Gary had a Larry
Larry had a moose
Her name was Luce
Luce had a goose whose name was Bruce
Bruce had a head
He laid it in bed
That’s when he said
‘Why is Larry dead?’
Luce started to cry
Because she didn’t know why
Why Larry had to die when her water bowl was dry
You are not broken,
the pieces in your head are just misplaced.
Forget the words spoken,
free your mind from what it has faced.
A new time is dawning,
there is always a place to start again.
Wake up in the morning,
release yourself from all the pain.
Happiness is calling,
go to the station and board the first train.
New friends are waiting,
millions of people feel the same.
Little miss Betty
Was walking her confetti
When a giant yeti
Came and ate her spaghetti
Little Betty cried
But soon the yeti died
Because a two eyed bride
Pulled out a machete
Frogs on the walkway
Frogs in the air
Frogs in the doorway
Frogs in underwear
Frogs in the hotel
Frogs in the grass
Frogs in the oil well
Frogs in the class
Frogs on the TV
Frogs in the pool
Frogs in the palm tree
Frogs in the school
Frogs on the table
Frogs in the pub
Frogs in the stable
Frogs in the shrub
Frogs on the school bus
Frogs all around us
There was once a giant chicken,
that laid a giant egg.
One day the egg started kickin’,
and out popped one leg.
The other chickens would giggle,
for they all had two.
The newborn chick could wiggle,
but walking was untrue.
The newborn chick got mad,
and asked them for a fight.
The other chickens felt bad,
when he was crying all night.
A wizard chicken came to see the chick,
and said he had a cure.
Abra Kadabra would do the trick,
but the results were quite poor.
The newborn chick now had two legs,
but also had four heads.
Ben had a pet snail,
a very strange one indeed.
It had a short tail,
and four legs at slow speed.
Ben’s snail had a large shell,
and a slime trail was no worry.
Ben’s snail had a strange smell,
but at least it wasn’t as bad as curry.
Ben’s snail lived in a tank,
swimming around in the water.
Ben said the water couldn’t be drank,
and that he was having a daughter!
I was walking through the town,
when a sudden eagle swooped down.
“Hello!” I said,
“Where is your head?”
The eagle made no sound.
I poked it with a stick,
but the eagle did not budge.
I began to feel quite sick,
when I noticed splats of red sludge.
“Silly me!” I said,
for the eagle was dead,
and that’s why the eagle had no head.
Spit a million brilliant white stars into the sky
Smile like a reptile feeding off a thousand crickets
Dance with the birds and planes until you begin to fly
Do not explore a funfair when you have all the tickets
Sunsets are pretty but sad when the darkness masks
A stunning settlement to why wolves kill at night
Open your eyes to shine light upon the uncompleted tasks
The wolves will flee as your beauty summons a sprite
Gaze beyond the flourishing stars you spat out
Grow a third eye in the middle of your mind
The tears down your cheek are going to sprout
Align the winds to a breeze where you can unwind
Allow your eyes to turn into ancient artifacts
See the sensational space around you in different shapes
Through the wooden ark of laughter and cheer
Settle a merchant that sells food and beer
Venturing onward grants you a yellow fizzed river
For only two gold coins you can devour your liver
Sailing through the foam and sugar
Spitting out words to request another
A few more down until the storm breaks out
The sails have torn so you begin to shout
Eventually you sink
And start to think…
“Did I really need another drink?”
I picked up a cookie jar and opened wide,
only to find there was an Alice inside.
She said go ahead kid,
take a chocolate biscuit,
then slanted her eyes and said ‘if you wanna risk it.’
I picked up a cookie and opened wide,
only to find there was a slug inside.
The slug ate my fingers and all the cookies too.
And that’s why cookies are really bad for you.
Who is the tastiest clam?
I am the tastiest clam, said Sam.
But Sam did not know that he was not so,
because Sam was a clam, covered in snow!
Romance poetry is my least favorite genre of poetry. The works I read are often not relatable or too cliché. I’ve had problems with relationships in the past, but for the last three years during my writing period, it has been smooth sailing. I must be lucky.
Despite romance not being favoured, I have still written some poetry about love and hate in relationships. The most positive I have wrote in dedication to my fiancée, the lesser positive ones are inspired by the struggles of my family.
I use my whiskey glass as a walkie-talkie,
She uses her wine glass as a mobile phone.
Sound waves conceal the wise disc jockey,
She said she wants to sleep alone.
Slouched on the worn out brown chair,
The radio host plays a sad song.
Loose tie and messed hair,
Trying to find where I belong.
She said she would never leave me,
But mistakes have been made.
I miss your warm soft hands,
And all of our future plans.
Through the sound of a wind chime,
I will remember you for a lifetime.
You are no longer human,
But words in the sand.
The tide comes in,
Like a sparkling stream of water,
That natural beauty of mine.
She smiles like our daughter,
Reminding me to appreciate time.
She uses toothpaste as lipstick,
Her cheeks soft as sponge.
The charm makes my heart tick,
To the point of a sudden lunge.
Her care can hypnotize,
Like the flow of a fountain.
Our bodies synchronize,
We could climb a mountain.
At times we collide,
But forever we will glide.
Soaked in water,
So we can clearly see,
The road we belong to be on.
There was once a rubber mask whose name was Little Tim
He sat at the back of class because everyone bullied him
Skill wasn’t his forte, he couldn’t sing, he couldn’t swim
He wanted to change his ways but did not know where to begin
One day a masquerade named Marissa came to his disposal
She got down on one knee and gave Tim a proposal
Little Timmy blushed and gave Marissa a rose
She was the pretty girl in school with so too many pros
On her ninth birthday Tim gave her his first cuddle
The tough kids got jealous as they lay down in a puddle
Grabbed Timmy after school and beat him with a rock
Told him to leave Marissa or he’ll be drinking from a sock
Tim then broke up with his one and only friend
She was very sad about it all coming to an end
They both sat alone in a room with an empty colouring book
Wondering what it would be like to see each other’s look
Days later Timmy’s parent’s decided to move away
A new home, a new school and a new time of day
Marissa almost cried but was too young to love
She prayed to her Lord whilst holding a paper dove
Twenty years later, Marissa and Tim stand in a church
Holding hands, knowing an end has come to their search.
The sailboat sailed away into the sunrise,
With two sea shells and a pearl on board.
I stay ashore the sand plain with a rock in hand,
Glass slices from my feet to my spinal cord.
The sun is blazing at 180 degrees,
I scavenge for food as I crawl on my knees.
At times I was inattentive as the boat has a cooler,
My crab will be happier than a fruitful jeweler.
I sharpen a stick to soak in the cuts,
On a leaf I write my grateful farewell.
Gently I place the leaf on the water,
It floats away carrying a magical spell.
Although I am now a skeletal frame,
I know my crab can ignite her flame.
Forever will there be silence between,
But sunlight will shine before my sweet queen.
Swore to me, yes she did.
But the stars flew away,
And the sand allay,
Now I am a deserted squid.
Butterflies blessed the room as she waved those silk wings,
Ribbons of beauty masked the smell of bleach and cocaine.
Her pale face brought out those deep black eyes,
As she caught me looking from the back seat,
Then the romantic gestures were focused on I.
The Japanese flamingo blushed with a giggle,
But it was then shadowed by a well patterned fan.
Soon the dance was over,
Though our story had just begun.
For a little while we spoke at the bar,
Despite not being a drinker she loved sitting there,
Laughing at my awful jokes.
I took her for a bowl of ramen,
Despite the gentle voice, she ate me speechless.
We laughed all night.
Darkness invaded the sky and down went the sun,
It was our time to part.
I hope to see her again.
Tomorrow came and the town was in shock,
Gossip spread like a forest fire.
The butterflies’ death was ordered by a wasp,
He didn’t agree with the pollen.
I see her for a final time,
Standing before her gravestone.
The raindrops fed the flowers,
But this one could no longer grow.
Caressing her cheek,
Feathers of love tickle deep,
Hearts begin to leak.
I once sat on a park bench,
there was a man feeding ducks.
He looked similar to me in a way,
when I was thirty years younger.
Back in the time of romance,
when I met my true blossom.
I attempted to talk to the man,
he didn’t seem to hear me.
So I began to read my paper.
a woman appeared.
My paper hit the floor,
my heart raged,
my brain strained,
for spring was here.
My blossom sat beside the man,
who I remember was I.
The man smiled and offered her some bread,
she said she had just eaten.
The man and I laughed,
lovely dress by the way.
we were shushed.
We should get dinner sometime,
the man and I asked.
I would like that,
The man and blossom talked for a while,
I listened to every word.
Eventually Blossom had to leave,
we said goodbye with a cuddle.
The man and I stared up into the clear sky,
with huge smiles we couldn’t stop.
At that point I woke again.
In my hospital bed,
a spring in my back,
a tear down my cheek.
For love may never die,
but blossom will fall.
A billion flowers in the sand,
And I only want to smell one.
You’re my plant cure,
I’m your Delilah.
I feel your beauty,
I see it in my phyla.
I imagine us on rooftops,
laying side by side,
with each other in our hands,
our souls connected,
a smile on our faces,
as peaceful as the breeze.
I imagine us on rooftops,
dancing to the chirping birds,
laughing in the sunset,
how wonderful that is.
Moment we fell in love,
I just remember the grieving
There was once a bird
dancing in the sky
until a dark black cloud
came floating by
it blocked the bird’s vision
but still it could see
that it was a bright blue sapphire
as beautiful as can be
She is a bonsai,
I am a pork pie,
She is a sparking sea,
I am a rotting tree,
She is a cloud in the sky,
I am a funny-looking guy.
the dirt under my nails
and the bed under my bugs
are the only pieces of must
in my circle of trust
i can walk with no legs
and see with no eyes
but she will still blind me
with the love in her lies
the tongue of a serpent
but the venom so gentle
i am a weak hearted merchant
her care was a rental
I once found a genie lamp,
It granted me three wishes.
‘Give me money.’ I said.
The genie looked in my wallet,
‘You already have it.’ He replied.
‘Then grant me knowledge.’ I said.
The genie looked at my bookshelf,
‘You already have it.’ He replied.
‘I know,’ said the genie,
‘How about I give you the world?’
I smiled, looked at her from across the room and said,
‘I already have it.’
I would first like to thank Chlöe for introducing me into the world of writing, and for her continuous support throughout the years.
Gerhard Gellinger for allowing the use of his artwork.
Shakespir for the distribution of this ebook.
I would like to thank my friends and family for helping the overcoming of my anxiousness with poetry. I wish the best to my inspirational artists, of whom I will avoid naming for their own privacy.
Special thanks to Wattpad™ for creating a playfield and learning resource in my early days of writing.
Micheal David Larsen has been my biggest influence to write throughout the years. I thank him for helping me absorb ideas from his work and for casting light on to my inspiration. R.I.P.
Finally, I would like to thank you for reading my first book of poetry. May your day be blessed & may happiness find your way.
This has been a strange experience. I never realized how much I enjoy the art of poetry and how many poems I have written until I edited this book.
I was born and raised in a small town near Middleborough. Throughout school I was always considered a ‘computer whiz’ by my family and teachers, and from age five to eighteen, technology was my primary interest. The interest was mainly focused towards video game design, as I began playing video games at age three, and have always had a little addiction towards gaming. At the end of school and start of college I wanted to be a graphic designer and animator within the gaming industry. However I couldn’t afford a university degree and from then on the interest died off. I now work as a warehouse operative, how fancy. As my interest in technology wore off, my adventure into the writing world began.
Other than November of 2013, when I began writing poetry, there was a time when I was actually a huge writer. I was about age ten when I started writing a lot, I had multiple huge files of stories. Most of the stories were about superheroes and villains, and others were medieval based fantasies. The files got thrown away eventually, which is a shame. I could have submitted them to Marvel and been a millionaire by now.
So what’s next? I’ll still be posting poetry continuously on my website , but my next book is likely a few years away. I also want to attempt some short stories when I find the time; they say a poet should never be a novelist, which is why I want to be so.
Si possum scribere libro, vos can scribere libro
The first works of Thomas W. Morris, followed by poetry collections of a negative and positive nature, disconnection, surrealism and love.