Copyright ©2016 Darren Hobson
There is a world out there,
With a lot of spaces.
So many emotions to describe,
So many different faces.
To describe what you feel,
To try to stoke the fires of imagination,
To fill the world with descriptive splendor,
Trying to find the elusive word.
Sitting still and staring at the screen,
Waiting for a spark in your brain to ignite,
Murmuring different phrases and compositions,
But they just don’t taste right.
Temporary writers block,
You definitely know what you are saying,
But you must choose well the words,
To show the world you are good at writing.
Searching still for that elusive word,
Looking for a key to unlock the verse,
A simple mysterious but important word,
Being elusive, hidden from view.
In my world I love to hide,
Deep and warmly inside,
Because it is cold outside,
And the people are too!
In my world I keep myself,
Busy doing things I like to do,
Hidden from the intruding people,
Silent and distant and hidden from view,
In my world I plan many things,
Most of them come to fruition,
Maturing into a world in themselves,
To my joy and interpolation!
In my world I am a crafty devil,
I’m fond of my way and DIY,
Hand crafting objects and scenes,
Always truthful, never a lie.
In my world I keep things simple,
No time for the complex and extraordinary,
Just plodding ahead like us hermits do,
Hidden from many and hidden from you.
What we sometimes see,
Is not always the truth,
It might not make much sense,
But it will make you see the light.
Sometimes we move too fast to see,
What is really going on around you and me,
The people in the street become a blur,
Ignoring the faces as if you don’t care.
In the city there is a hive of activity,
There are also a million bright lights,
Overlapping and merging into a picture,
That we never quite see right.
We are too busy going here and there,
Heads pointing down to our telephones,
All around marvelous life continues on,
But we have distanced ourselves from that.
What we need to do is open eyes,
And get accustomed to the lights,
Learn to be social and pleasant once again,
Being a human and being polite.
Nothing better to do all day,
Spending your time online,
Surfing the web like a homesick shark,
Nothing in common with this life of mine.
When you have fished long enough,
And you have found a weak feeble loner,
Maybe affected by a life changing tragedy,
But that means nothing to you really.
You think you are witty and funny,
With the string of vile insults,
That have flowed from your PC,
Into this free flowing internet world.
Hiding behind a computer screen,
Threatening people and being obscene,
Heartless and relentless all times of the day,
You cannot give up on what you need to say!
You are nothing but a classic bully,
Maybe you have a few loose wires yourself,
Because a person so inconsiderate like you,
Have many skeletons in the closet.
Hey honey! How are doing?
I was just watching what you were doing,
That it was great, what you did,
Keep up the good work kid!
Hey honey! Now what do you do?
The eliminate of surprise has passed,
It is time to elaborate once again,
These people you see aren’t so tame.
Hey honey! Now that you have our attention,
And now that you have got in a stride,
All the eyes and the spotlight is on you,
Now you have nowhere to hide!
Hey honey! Now the pleasantries are over,
And the sick sucker of work has begun,
You will slime and slide into another situation,
That might be just as fun!
Hey honey! It is time to quit,
All the time in the world is yours,
Just remember what you live for,
And you will get your applause!
Normally it is a procession,
Marching up and down your street,
Maybe a religious and strange ceremony,
That comes around twice a year.
But the drum has a beat,
And that sound has a rhythm,
And like in any old band,
You follow it and keep in time.
So much noise and excitement,
That could make you fall out of line,
But they are strict rules to adhere to,
Obey the lord of music!
Your ears hear the vibration,
Your heart is in your mouth,
Just like some zombie looking for brains,
Your soul is following the drum,
This is the beat that keeps you alive,
This is the moment you have been waiting for,
This is what it means to be alive,
This is the drum and will be forever more.
Decisions have to be made,
You could stand still,
Whilst the world passes you by,
Or go against the flow.
You could stand on a platform,
In any old Victorian station,
Randomly choosing a destination,
On the dirtiest steam train.
Out of the usual monotonous flow,
Sipping cold tea with tedious torturers,
Instead you decided it was time go,
And board a strange old train.
You don’t care about the destination,
You are just heading to the furthest stop,
You will sit for hours at the carriage window,
Watching the countryside swirl by.
Surrounded by strangers with other problems,
All running to or from one another,
The train does not care of your predicaments,
It is right on track and never on time.
You know I shouldn’t but I do,
I see you sat in the shop,
My obsessive attraction to you,
And I swipe the lot.
Queuing up now bored,
Cannot wait to get you home,
To undress the silver foil,
And see you naked inside.
I shouldn’t be buying sugary food,
My teeth are in disarray,
But I cannot resist the taste of toffee,
And my life is in decay.
You are poisoning my ideas,
Just the thought of you melting,
Sliding down my throat,
That taste, the sugar, the sin.
You know I shouldn’t but I do,
Dedicate my love all to you,
You will be the death of me, don’t you see,
The treacle, the chocolate and most of all,
Here we are again in a jam,
It must be the end of school,
Lots of idiot drivers in a spin,
Don’t know shit about driving.
And the driver is way too small,
To drive a tank of that size,
They are too busy changing channels,
Why don’t you use your eyes?
Stuck in traffic because no one walks no more,
To buy a loaf of bread they travel so far,
They put 30 miles in to save 20 pence,
Not taking in consideration the fuel consumption of their Jaguar.
Traffic jam because people are too lazy to park,
So they just stick it in any old way,
Along comes a tram and finds a delivery man plonker,
Blocking the rails and thus blocking the town.
One big huge damn traffic jam,
Just for one person’s inconsiderate actions,
As us commuters behind the tram fume,
A million trees die from monoxide poisoning!
When it rains the world is sad,
Full of gloom and doubt,
Nothing can pick you up,
Until the glorious sun comes out.
Why does it have to be so cold?
When it rains and blows a gale,
Especially on the east coast of England,
Lashed with rain from the North Sea.
Why does the rain have to be so wet?
Making clothes horrid and damp,
Seeping through holes in your sneakers,
Trainers overflowing with murky water.
Sometimes the rainwater,
Is polluted with sand or debris,
Raining cats and dogs and slimy frogs,
Scoped up in some foreign country.
When it rains it’s never the same,
It makes you feel lonely as hell,
It makes you want to hide some more,
Or just make a huge pot of tea!
There are a lot of things,
To take into consideration,
When you have to decide,
To do something like a scientist.
You have to decide the best option,
Thinking of all the pros and cons,
You have to make sure to please,
Not just yourself for once.
As the romantic wheels churn in your head,
Puffing out smoke from your dirty ears,
You must admit your cogs are not well oiled,
A small decision for you could take years.
It is like putting a woman in a knicker shop,
You know the largest one on the planet,
All the colours and designs and materials,
Any man would be driven to insanity.
There are a lot of things to decide in this life,
You must consider a wide variety of options,
What may seem correct and cute now,
Could turn out to be one hell of a monster.
You was annoyed at the dripping,
The tapping of water on the bathroom sink,
You know you had to do something,
The noise had pushed you to the brink.
You stick your head under the rear of the sink,
The cats decided to join in,
In the darkness below the basin,
You find grime and gloom and no clue.
Also well hidden items of interest,
That most probably the cats had placed there,
Potato peel and grotty fluffy woollen balls,
And lots of long red hair.
Finding the hidden stopcock,
Dismounting the tap with ease and glee,
Noticing that the rubber washer is torn,
And the time is half past three!
Dashing to the DIY store,
It just had to be pouring with rain,
Finally with the new rubber in your hands,
You can remount the tap again.
We had been drinking all night,
John said he was throwing us out,
So we bought a few cans to take away,
A group of men now crossing the motorway.
On that bridge the wind howled,
Our leather jackets kept us warm,
John had closed the pub legally this time,
We had to find another cove.
Drinking in the caravan near the self-service garage,
Our friend was well smashed,
His beloved dog wanted to be part of the action,
And had eaten half the left overs in the fridge.
As us long haired rascals became hungry,
It was time to go to the garage for supplies,
The dog suggested it wanted to come too,
That was a sight for sore eyes.
Even though it was three in the morning,
There was a long queue at the little window,
But seeing the notorious dog dragging me there,
I ended up at the head of the queue.
It is shame how it turned out,
We was all routing for you,
You did not take the bull by the horns,
It just seemed so untrue.
It was a shame it rained that day,
And the appointment was not fulfilled,
Destiny tore apart our love affair,
And the day after you was killed.
It was a shame you did not stop at my place,
I did not expect you to come out last night,
With the raining beating down so hard,
But being the death of you was not right.
It was a shame you died so young,
And all your dreams were left unfulfilled,
You were dashing towards your Prince Charming,
But in this fairy-tale Cinderella was killed.
When dates and times and destinations,
All become confused and uncertain,
It was a shame you entered my dreams,
And reality is never what it seems.
I noticed a crack in the wall,
I noticed a crack in reality,
I noticed a cracking fissure,
I noticed wings of a butterfly.
Flying high in the spring air,
Floating and twisting delicately,
Swiped at by a crude net,
A little boy traps the insect.
I noticed a crack in this story,
I noticed a crack in this boys smile,
I noticed that nothing is what it seems,
I noticed the wings of the little boy.
Flying high in the acrid air,
The sky colourful like sunset,
But no sun rose above this planet,
A little life form trapped in history.
I noticed a crack in my dream,
The truth seemed to be seeping through,
A parallel universe born from me,
Pouring from a crack within you!
It is not the fault of the turnip,
It has such a foul taste,
It is not the fault of the turnip,
If it happens to be grown in this place.
It is not the fault of the turnip,
If mother decides she has had enough,
Of buying carrots or cabbage or cauliflower,
An alternative is the turnip.
The poor turnip sliced and diced,
And thrown unceremoniously into the stew,
That foul meal created on a bleak Monday,
All the Sunday left overs congregate there.
The poor child looks on in dismay,
Who was really hoping for ravioli,
Instead he has the hot and horrid witch’s portion,
This is definitely the worst day.
Some vegetables are foul and without taste,
Even if they are steamed cooked,
Be warned if you place a cooked turnip before me,
Because that will be the death of you!
Winning is an elusive word,
When you live in a failing society,
Everyone wants to be a winner,
Everybody a guest at your party,
From poker to frustration,
There is scrabble and monopoly,
There are a million card games,
To fulfil your fantasy.
And as the board games disappear,
And everything is interactive and online,
The frustration of losing your nine lives,
Means you will not be sleeping again.
You have to think of new strategies,
To beat that level seventeen,
It seems all your friends are better than you,
Even if they are all mean.
Winning seems to be an elusive word,
Until you have won something and never again,
It seems winning is only a three minute high,
Followed by an eternity of pain.
You are smaller than me,
You are younger than me,
Less talkative than me,
Can I be you bully?
Can I pick on you?
And bring you to tears?
Can I make your life miserable?
For all your school years?
Can I call you foul names in front of the whole class?
Can I do things to you, that even makes the teacher laugh?
Spitting and throwing chewing gum on your hair?
Can I be the sadistic asshole that makes your life unfair?
Can I push you to depression?
When I make your life a misery.
Can I watch you as you contemplate?
Jumping off a high raised flat?
Ok I’m smaller than you but don’t you worry,
Younger than you but I have a bright future,
You will live an average life earning a pittance!
I the once bullied will be rich in the south of France!
When you do so little,
For most of your time,
Do you not get bored?
Of the same old crime?
It seems to me that life is too easy,
You might have been born,
With a silver and gold spoon in your mouth,
And I think your mother forgot to take it out!
It seems you have so much time to do little,
It seems such a waste of resources and life,
While some people work to the bone for buttons,
You sit online or on your phone.
You do little but pose and squirm,
Taking yet another photo of yourself and your rear,
Just for that you are given presents and holidays,
Doing so little for all the bloody year.
Maybe us workers are envious of you now,
But the bubble will burst and you will fall from grace,
All of your make up will dry up your face,
Looking like a snake in Death Valley.
There are many crumbling towns in England,
All of them have seen better days,
But with the birth of cheap air travel,
The English tourist changed its ways.
Only fifty years ago in an English summer,
Landlocked city stations would be crowded,
As thousands of workers set off on holiday,
All fleeing the grime for the Victorian seaside town.
With a bulky suitcase and two little brats,
A promise to ride the donkeys on the beach,
Father and mother would like the cabaret on the pier,
Father being scorned after drinking too much beer.
No matter the quality of the sea or the beach,
In those days it was generally an open sewer,
The sand was packed with northern tourists,
With sickly ice-creams and the stench of manure.
As people were tempted by cleaner seas and warmer sun,
The decline of the Victorian promenade had begun,
And now as you can see the filth and the decline,
Tarnishing that once nice memory of mine.
Sometimes to be fully understood,
You have to keep things simple,
Stripped to the bone and without ceremony,
Straight to the point and not so funny.
Sometimes being simple makes things easy,
The taste is delicate and easy to digest,
Nothing so over extravagant and crusty,
So fresh and easy and tasty.
The simple things in life seem so far away,
But in reality it is already they’re hidden in confusion,
Just take a step backwards to observe the scene,
And prepare to live happily ever after!
Sometimes as we travel here and there,
On super-fast trains and underground motorways,
We bypass the simple beauty of the countryside,
No time to linger and see what is hidden there.
It is time for us all to become simpler,
In what we eat and what we do,
We should find time for simple pleasures,
Pleasures to show and grow you.
I am everything you ever desire,
I am a truthful person never the liar,
A wicked sense of humour,
Entwined with a crazy fantasy,
I am satisfaction guaranteed.
I am the point of the universe where stars collide,
Searching out the truth in asteroids blind,
Filtering out the noise and the overblown facts,
I am difficult to hold back with this crazy mind,
But I am satisfaction guaranteed.
Concerned with the plight of all humanity,
Shocked with the way we have fallen so far,
Desperately seeking the positives in our bleakest winter,
Shining a rainbow to lead you away,
Because I am satisfaction guaranteed.
I try to make myself prim and proper,
Without lose the ragged edges of my wit,
Sometimes it is difficult to keep myself sane,
Tough luck you have to deal with it,
And still I am satisfaction guaranteed.
As I pull myself together after another cat fight,
Dusting off the bruises and paper cuts,
Focusing my energy on another type of verse,
Trying to recite with the ifs and buts,
I am satisfaction guaranteed.
A simple useful object,
A warm kind flame,
Good company in the dark,
Friendly all the same.
As the wax melts slowly,
Sliding erotically down the shaft,
Unveiling the core within,
Melting down our time.
Flickering and dancing,
There must be a draft somewhere,
Or is it the friendly ghost at play,
Being mischievous and unfair.
We have become dependent on neon lights,
On energy savers and LED,
So many people have forgotten how romantic,
A candle can be.
With a simple match,
Ignites a welcome flame,
Romance is born again.
The cat is a clever little devil,
Causing mischief everywhere,
When you scold him for making a mess,
He wags his tail to show he doesn’t care.
As your living room turns into a warzone,
The furry brothers leap and bound,
Cat hair and ornaments sent flying,
Glass and teacups all over the ground.
As you swear and curse the day they were born,
Those two dark eyes stare back at you,
Melting your heart and lowering your defences,
Before they jump up and scratch you.
As they knock on your door at four in the morning,
Because they are in dire need of your company,
As you finally have your toilet break,
The cat is sat watching you triumphantly.
The cat makes laws for itself,
The human does not have any say,
The cat causes mischief all the time,
It makes an interesting day!
We just love slipping and sliding,
All day and all around,
The heat of each other’s bodies,
Actions that make so many sounds.
Whispers and caresses in the ear,
Closer and firmer still,
Time dissolves so quickly,
When you are heading for the kill.
As bed sheets and pillows lie scattered,
As all daily chores are forgotten,
Two bodies panting feeling shattered,
Waiting for the next round.
As thighs and ankles embrace again,
There is no time to feel ashamed.
Rolling around awakening the old bed springs,
Showing her you are still game.
We just love slipping and sliding,
Into and out of each other,
It is the primal being inside all of us,
That is awoken beneath our covers.
Such a delicate thing,
A flower is golden and radiant,
Dancing in the spring breeze,
Pampered by the honey bees,
Such a romantic thing,
A flower is the choice of the romantic,
Ripped from its roots to be given,
Death comes within a few days.
Such a precious thing you are,
Found in herbal tea and medicine,
Soothing aches and pains,
And getting the better of fastidious rashes.
Such a fragile thing,
As you burst open into life,
The sight of your petals unfolding,
Is a sign that everything will be alright.
As we care for and cure,
These flowers grow in a million places,
Filling the air with pollen and perfume,
Appreciated by a billion faces.
Just like the drum,
Music is fun,
Different types for different classes,
Different ways to shake your ass.
You could have grown up watching MTV,
You could be a rock n roll swinger from 1960,
You could be a hippy or a mod,
You could be anything you want.
Today we are never alone,
We have a Walkman in our smartphone,
We have the discotheque always on line,
It only takes a recharged battery to have a good time.
Music can be violent and can be a protest,
Music can be fuelled by drugs,
Music can be the death of the artist,
When fragile states become overlooked.
Embrace the music don’t let them take it away,
Music is the distraction to make your day,
Thumping out melodies,
Music is the closest companion to me!
I am feeling a little weak,
The sun seams to make me sick,
I hide in my bed all day,
Don’t want to see the sun at all.
I have a romantic notion I’m a vampire,
Maybe I have watched too many horror films,
I drink sickly blackcurrant juice,
Pretending it is the blood of a virgin.
I really loved watching Christopher Lee act,
He was the greatest of my heroes,
Peter Cushing comes a close second,
I want to be Van Helsing vampire hunter.
I want to be the vampire and the hunter,
Maybe I am confused about my condition,
I cannot be a vampire lover and its nemesis,
I cannot be the best of both worlds.
Maybe this is why I am feeling weak in the bones,
Because my loyalty to which side cannot be decided,
Maybe it depends on the time of the year,
Or maybe which side of the bed I fell out of!
We learnt so many lessons,
And so of them we did not learn well,
Only time will show the advantages,
Only future situations can help.
Don’t jump to so many conclusions,
Remember not to judge every book by its cover,
This world is deceitful and kind,
So many trapdoors and secret passage ways.
Different answers can take you to different levels of knowledge,
Better a well thought out and patient reply,
Than hastily trying to get an answer out in record time,
Into the jaws of the crocodile tears.
Anyone can paint a brighter picture,
Anyone can wax a rotten apple red,
Anyone can apply make-up to a corpse,
Covering up the fact it is already dead.
With random thoughts of unwanted wisdom,
With unsavoury pieces of junk and rust,
When all around seems an optical illusion,
Buckle up tight and don’t jump to conclusions!
Would you like to live in a castle with me?
In some strange place so we can spy the sea,
From the highest tower in the cold of winter,
Looking out for the oncoming storm.
We could sit in the great hall by the log fire,
Watching the shiny suits of armour,
Hopefully waiting for them to move supernaturally,
Even though there is nothing inside.
We could lie in our dusty four poster bed,
Listening to the creaks and groans of the wind,
We could pretend they are restless ghosts,
Coming back to the castle to haunt me.
We should a plan a big kings’ feast and invite our friends,
To eat at the knights table without an end,
Over eating and getting drunk on red wine,
Overacting in our real life pantomime.
So would you like to live in a castle with me?
Maybe in Conwy Wales or Squillace in Italy?
It would be drafty and cold and hard to cope,
But at the same time an adventure full of hope.
Once upon a time it was a family event,
The children came down from upstairs,
Only one huge TV set in the living room,
Before the portable ones become the trend.
Not many people admit it,
Sitting there with father and mother,
Watching the Generation Game or Game for a Laugh,
Eastenders and Coronation Street or Cilla!
In those by gone years there was little drama,
This was the time before Casualty and The Bill,
Emmerdale was about sheep dipping and Mr. Wilks,
And Crossroads was in its original format.
We would watch Tom Baker playing you know who,
We would then watch the Tripods for fun,
Who can forget Tiswas or Noel Edmonds,
The World of Sport with Dickie Davies.
Nowadays everybody has their own television,
Watching the violence and porn from reality TV.
There is no romance in the television ratings,
And no more escaping into the TV.
It seems pretty simple to do,
With a bit of flour and an egg,
A pinch of salt and a whisk or two,
But some of us fail miserably!
It is a must do tradition for Sunday Roast,
My gran made the best Yorkshires ever,
Huge and tasty and full of air,
No problem in containing one litre of gravy.
You can read online all the tricks of the trade,
But in the end it could depends on your oven,
If the oven is hot and without leaks,
Those beauties will surely rise!
I like to keep up with tradition,
Sometimes I cut a couple of corners,
But recently from our kitchen has risen,
Apple Pie, Chicken stuffing and Yorkshire Puds.
I might never make a meal like my gran did,
But just trying to helps to keep history alive,
I am always experimenting with new recipes,
With fresh products unrefined.
I have said it before and I will say it again,
Even though I first wrote about it in 92,
No matter how many years I have slaved,
This work ethic still bores my soul.
So many assholes trying to get the better of you,
So many teachers’ pets trying to get in the lead,
All day grovelling and groaning,
Trying to get a pay raise from manipulation.
Work, I don’t want to,
Work, I have had enough,
Nightmare scenario working forty hours a week,
And my future looks so bleak!
Having to be part of team of people,
Who have no idea what a group means,
They think they can chat on Facebook all day,
While the minority sweat like pigs.
Even though my years to my pension is lower now,
I still have one huge mountain to climb,
Sick to death of hearing and seeing all this bullshit,
Being a slave is like a life of crime!
Not many of us remember school,
We went their years ago,
We had to be force fed historical lies,
And we tried not to break the rules.
Studying religion when the teacher was racist,
Studying music when the teacher was a pervert,
Participating in P.E. when the instructor was drunk,
The headmaster was getting too close to his sheepdog.
We had a chemistry teacher, who threatened pupils,
The psycho held someone out of the second floor window,
We had a Kitchen in our history lesson,
We had a Hunter in our science lessons,
The golden age of being taught a load of bollocks,
Learning French and Geography and Economics,
I don’t believe many of my fellow pupils use these skills,
Whilst shopping in the Fishergate Centre.
It seems so ordinary and stupid now,
The things we got up to at school,
Someone even drove their dad’s car into the grounds at night,
Yep the black Capri, what a fool!
In England it is normally cold and wet,
When the bus is late it seems colder,
Waiting under a vandalized bus shelter,
The timetable has been used as toilet paper.
The rain always blows in the wrong direction,
It always blows straight into your face,
And if not to make matters worse,
There is a huge puddle at the side of the road.
You risk being drowned every time a car passes,
With that horrid murky green water,
Even the ducks don’t want to know,
Keeping away from the new pond in town.
Finally Fishwicks arrive at the bus stop,
You pay for your ticket in pennies.
The bus conductor is not pleased with that,
Murmuring something under his breath.
We used to protest and get angry waiting,
Now the green Leyland Buses are no more,
Everybody drives from home to work,
Stuck in traffic even more than before!
Corridors and so much more,
Waxed and shining from ceiling to floor,
Amazing and shocked at this maze,
Internally and randomly this hidden place.
From the deep depths of mine,
So many passageways to explore,
Some places are darker and eerier than others,
Some lead on forever more.
There are doors in every possible place,
Some are locked some are opened wide,
Lots of places to store unwanted memories,
Lots of storage to file or hide.
Every moment of your life you travel,
Along dark and strange corridors,
There is no one to help you or a map,
These are all our personal labyrinths,
Some places we visit often,
Others are left far behind,
Some places we try to run from,
That huge labyrinth in the mind!
There are lot of memories in here,
I have a thousand stories to tell,
Sometimes it is hard to choose,
In the end I just carry on.
For every memory I write down,
Another one comes into view,
So I just keep jotting them down,
Just carrying on for you.
Sometimes what I uncover,
Maybe something funny or surreal,
Sometimes I remember something awful,
But I just carry on at the wheel.
Sometimes it seems we have done nothing,
Until we recall what we have done,
Every day is waiting to be written,
Just carrying on for the fun.
We might grow stronger and wiser,
For each new and exciting experience,
But looking back over our shoulders,
This is how we learn to carry on!
I have a little sister,
She may be prettier than me,
Maybe because I am six years older,
And she is, at times, quite funny.
I have a little sister,
When she was young she danced a lot,
It seemed every weekend she went to Park Hall,
Not that I have been there.
I have a little sister,
She settled down and bought a house,
As time passed two boys come into the picture,
One is a rascal the other quiet as a mouse.
I have a little sister,
Now we live worlds apart,
We don’t see each other often enough,
Maybe she is happy with that.
I have a little sister,
There is nothing extraordinary in that,
She can be a cheeky monkey,
Especially after her cup of cider!
I have a muse that stands beside me,
She needs feeding now and then,
So I cook her some healthy food,
And we start the cycle again.
The muse is at home most of the day,
Mainly studying and looking after the cats,
She gets frustrated at exam time,
And we all understand that.
The muse is from a place down south,
Where the style of life is much friendlier,
Even though it is labelled a poor part of Italy,
Everything else is richer by far.
The muse loves different cultures,
She would like to fly out to India,
Maybe when she has got through her exams,
I might give that wish to her.
The muse being the muse she is,
Gives me a reason to carry on writing,
I try to do the best I can,
Between the cooking and cat fighting!
The is nothing more joyous than waking up again,
Knowing that you have survived into a new day.
Sometimes life will get you frustrated,
And we forget the miracles that we are.
Waking up again is best on a spring morning,
When the birds are chirping and the air is fresh,
Feeling reinvigorated and full of hope,
Knowing that life has begun again.
Waking up again with a sigh of relieve,
Knowing deep down inside you like,
Being alive even though it gets you down,
But you promised yourself to smile.
Waking up again and feeling reborn,
You are determined to fulfil your dreams,
Deciding to get over petty arguments,
Concentrating positively on the road ahead.
Waking up again and feeling sort of new,
The skin has been changed in front of you,
Stretching limps and yawning hard,
Time for breakfast, the rat race waits!
Some people are afraid of their shadow,
They do not stand in front of the mirror,
They seem to see something with themselves,
Something that makes them shudder.
They hate to look themselves in the eye,
Because they can see a reflection of their soul,
They seem to be ashamed of what they are,
And maybe where they have come from.
Some people lack self-confidence,
Maybe they are suicidal or depressed,
They seem to think the world is against them,
A civil war within their head.
When out and about with normal people,
They tend to shy away from the crowd,
They always seem to keep themselves to themselves,
Always being silent and never too loud.
A lot of people are wary of these kinds of people,
They are afraid of the people, who are afraid of themselves,
And the more afraid the people become,
The bigger the snowball effect.
Sorry for what I have done and written,
Sorry for what has gone wrong in my head,
Sorry if I have wrote or said too much,
Sorry if I have said sorry already.
We all have a paranoid streak,
Wondering what the other people think,
Hoping the other people think kind things,
About us, if they are thinking of us.
Maybe though nobody is thinking of me,
Maybe nobody believes in this poetry,
Maybe I am just making one big mistake,
Consuming time as I write this verse.
Sorry if my poem was too long,
Sorry if my humour was too English,
Sorry if I seem so out of touch,
Sorry if you don’t love me too much.
We all have it inside each of us,
A burning fire to be better than what we are,
To push ourselves further ahead.
Saying sorry just to ease our pain!
Not many of us have worked in a factory,
It is an evil wretched place to be,
As I have worked for over 25 years,
I have met some strange types in that time.
How many jokes and cruel taunts have I heard?
Against me or just someone else,
The boredom of the job has to be broken,
So they unload their pain on someone else.
This is just a quick flash in the pan,
I am not going to start naming names,
But the different types of characters I have met,
Half of them must have been insane.
Maybe it is because they work in shit,
And hardly see the daylight,
Working amongst fumes and hard graft,
It was enough to send you over the edge.
Well I survived the factory,
From sadness and some moments funny,
I got through five years of that,
Gladly I saw the light with my integrity intact!
It could be the end of your summer holiday,
It could be when you decided to go home,
From visiting long lost relatives,
You know you have to wave goodbye.
You could be standing at a graveside crying,
Looking down on a deep dark hole,
Knowing there in that brand new coffin,
Is a very close old friend of yours.
There was no time to wave goodbye,
For he was gone in an instant,
Another tragic road traffic accident,
And there are tears all around.
Another person waves goodbye,
Thankfully because she was getting on his nerves,
Some love stories are destined to end,
Because not all people can cope together.
And now your favourite poet waves goodbye,
As he has come to the end of another book,
I hope you found something worthwhile,
Farewell my friend and good luck!
Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favourite retailer?
About the author:
Darren Hobson was born in Preston, Lancashire in England and moved to Italy in 1998.Currently living near Rome working for a multinational company.
In his spare time he loves traveling to mainly Calabria in Italy and to Yorkshire in England, where both landscapes rich of history inspire him to write intense poetry.
The poet started submitting his work for inclusion in many anthologies between 1990 and 2009, but with the help of social network sites and self-publishing sites he started to publish his own books in 2014.
Connect with Me:
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Favourite me at Shakespir
This is the latest edition to the Just series of books, this time the author has returned to basics bringing the reader a simple and cleaner style of poetry. There are many different themes to his poetry from his opinions and life changing events and including funny poems to make your day a happier environment. Everybody who is somebody in the life of this extraordinary poet makes an appearance. This indie author continues to write so many wonderful stories.