Monday, 16 December 2013


It is blinding,
The light we are born into
We stand on our own two feet
Because we are told to.
Then come the lessons,
The learning,
The rhymes,
The rhythm;
We are taught from the beginning we should have a certain disposition.

Take into consideration the fragility of mind
That when we are all children we so commonly find.
There is not one who does not doubt or second guess,
But when life is made in black and white,
There is no multiple choice test.

Then we walk, whether on sand or stone,
We travel the world, ultimately on our own.
Collecting blisters and callouses,
Dead skin,
Dry flesh.
The weight of the world ripping through that fragile mesh.

Now I can feel it,
Coming for me, and me alone.
A static, distorted, ethereal voice
Calling me on the phone.
The darkness creeping,
Just out of sight,
When the day begins to end,
And heralds another night.

And I’m floating
Down and down some more.
Into that nothingness
That we all hate and love to ignore.

Where do we all stand
When it all comes to a head?
When the lights fade to blackness
And everyone is dead.

See I don’t think any of us can know
We split the world into molecules,
But in what way does that ever help us grow?
There is no encore, nothing follows the end of the show.

At least, not for those-
Those left behind.
Who have nothing but their grief
And very little piece of mind.
From infant to elder,
From unconsciousness to reality,
Our lives are determined,
By a series of technicalities.

And whilst we wander,
Through the turbulent ocean of doubt and uncertainty
Our voyage becomes a one way trip to deception and cruelty.

We shine a light ahead, to see what we must pass
Only to bring into view a cloud of poison gas.
We choke,
And gag-

What was my point again?
This journey has rendered me deaf and lame,
I remember now- the potent, unforgiving refrain
Every life ultimately ends the same-
Life is nothing if not a desperate struggle for

Life is nothing, if not a game.

Saturday, 14 December 2013


I believe in nothing, at least that's what I believe. There was a time when I counted each 'tick' of the clock, but all they do is deceive, and run parallel with every 'tock.' So I traded counting for waiting, in the hope it would stop the anticipating, something will happen, something must happen, something would happen, something could happen, but no. 

I believe in nothing, at least that's what I believe I believed. My frustrations were just imaginations, of another character whispering in my ear. Apathy is my defining trait, I've been told... I hear. There are times, moments, fractions of seconds separate from reality, where I might let myself believe in love and spirituality, where the world isn't such a daunting, desolate place, and we aren't just bodies, floating through empty space. I like to keep a safe distance from those moments, and weep as the sight of them passing by, brings another pathetic, self-hating tear to my weary, bloodshot eye.

I believe in nothing, at least that's what I tell myself I believe I believed. That somehow that is justification for me being so passively aggrieved. When In truth I know there is nothing, or little, at the very least, that can be said to solidify the position that my lifespan should be increased in light of others, whose lot is worse than mine, whose misery and suffering I am unable to define, especially in comparison to this life of mine. There is nothing of significance to be said, and yet here it is. I believe in nothing, but I can't believe it's true, I have to believe in something... If not myself, then something, someone... You.