You do not have to be good

You do not have to be good

or do as you think you should

while under cloak and dagger

burn fire, would

you want to sprawl and lie and try

to hide

who you are, how you feel inside?

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to bow.

While inside you howl

to the open moon:

a whittled wishbone

over time that is over too soon.

Your lion heart won’t tame you,

your wild wings push through the cage.

Your life is not a stage.

It is real.

What you feel is real.

Stop the games of hide and seek,

there’s no need to hide, or run away;

instead come out, come out, wherever you are.

Come out, come out, as gay.


We talk and type and text and take

the time of those we will never make

the ones we love; its past now: loved,

as we try to forget the past, its shoved

to the back of my black mind

as it twists and turns and tries to find

a way to make sense of this bind.

This bind’s unkind, a bondage, blue,

masochistic; I am for you.

I am? Its passed. You’re past it, through.

I remove the shackles, keep walking through.

Take a leap of faith, they say to me, to you,

but for me the leap is toward truth.

I release the chains of desire for faith,

and I remove the ropes of hope that burn and chafe,

for me the freedom is a different shape.

Its cold and dark and twisted to the core

and I wrap myself around it more

with every word I hear from your hot, hot, mouth

with your heated breath and tastes of dreams

of stars and hearts and scars and screams

of pain and fear and misery

that is what becomes of love to me.

The freedom roars and roars until its hoarse

behind the wall I made myself

I hear the bellows more and more

but the freedom comes from my own health

and right now the wall is freeing

as I sneak peeks at other beings

and feel invincible behind my shield

Ive found a bond, an Achille’s heel,

that plays as Samson’s golden locks

and in my heart this new freedom mocks

but behind my wall I feel safe and free

from the pain that others can pass on to me.



I go in the kitchen,

see her squat shape

squared, hunched

as she urinates into

the purple plastic bowl.

This is my home now.

This is my home.


This is the place

where plates pile up with old food,

old stories, old news

is hoarded to peruse

and bring out on display

because pain doesn’t go away.

And bowls devoid of chicken soup

for the soul are instead

pissed in and poured out

by pissy preachers  on a roll.

Others use hoods

to cover their eyes

as a way to hide from the lies.

My parents kid themselves:

He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.

She loves you, yeah, yeah yeah.

But what is love

and what is marriage

but a carriage horse drawn

with horses dead, flayed, torn?

From ruins opinions born.

My brother and I: jaded, bored.

And full of hurt, pride, scorn.

This won’t be us.

This won’t be us.

We won’t be scrambled,

trampled, bruised.

By the zombie horse

on course with cart and carriage.


we are not you.

We won’t be you.

We will love true

or remain alone,

our solace true.


You are a ghost now

The library of my life

goes in three year segments;

you have a whole shelf

to yourself.

The settling dust brings the mights

and what ifs into the night,

but the days cause the fading

caused by a life continually changing.

My dear,

You are a ghost now.

Some of these books’ words are too faded

to read; they would need

a fence sitting historian to search text

find the sex,

find our love, find love’s death;

of the pains that harmed health.

The death I remember.

Will remember forever, but,

my dear,

You are a ghost now.

An unclear sight before me,

you stand in my minds eye.

It gets harder to see you now,

and easier to not yearn, ache, or cry.

I can see us dancing, you pulling faces,

romancing me, but the kissing

memories are cold, confused, missing.

My dear,

You are a ghost now.

The library of my life

goes in three year segments;

You earned a whole shelf

to yourself.

I will try my best to protect it,

not dissect it, or be selective,

but enjoy it for what it was:

my first love; first love lost.

My dear,

You are a ghost now.


Self Destruct

All day

for the past few days

I have tried to find a way

to be self destructive

to let go and to give

into the temptation

of a calming sensation

following a revelation

of what makes me tick.

Something short, sharp and quick.

I want

and I crave

to give up; misbehave,

but cuts lead to infection

and sex leads to AIDs

or herpes or infections

that feel like pissing blades.

I need to find a release

from this weak willed decay

but today’s not the day

to find a way

because a hunger strike

leaves me hungry

and booze leads to kidney pain.

Alcohol makes you fat,

sad, angry, morose

while you sit sad and lonely

thinking about poor options you chose.

Self destruction, it blows,

no shits going up my nose.

Drugs are for wasters

wasting time on those

who don’t care for them

one iota, one bit,

I spend time crying on buses

for a girl who gives not one shit.

The wall I could hit

but my knuckles would hurt

I could scream and tear

at my buttons

but would ruin my shirt

I can’t stand this hurt

but what’s the point




It took me so long to stand up

that I can’t go back now.

I must embrace this frown

and accept for now


my fate.

Life gives you lemons

on a crappy plate

but that doesnt mean

you squirt acid juice

in your eye

just to make you feel better

from having a cry.

I can not deny

that a break

would do me good

but the best break of all

was the one that I should

have made a long time ago

before it all got this way;

I should have left you

as beautiful and happy,

not stayed

to watch you grow ugly,



my self has been destructed.

Destructed by you.

My body already broken,

my soul riddled with blue.

I’ve self destructed already,

a choice that I chose

when I stood by a woman

who had chosen to go.

She upped and left me

while I hoped like a fool

and for memories of her

I want to bring out my tools?

I want to break shirts

and to scream and cry?

So cliche!

I just need to keep running

from these thoughts

from this pain

and truly accept

its over.


These thoughts are destructing

myself every day.

From breaks bones grow stronger,

white flickers in grey,

the morning will come soon

and the pain will soon fade.

Love is the destructor,

it put me through Hell

and I’m still dancing on hot coals,

this heat must be quelled.

The blisters will form soon,

but I will continue the dance

the fire must die out

so I, my self, stands a chance.


No more

You say to me:

“I love you.

You are my one and only.

It will always be you.

You are the one.

Maybe we can date

in the summer

and see how things go?

We can take things slow.

And grow

at a healthy pace.

We can learn our lessons

and be the people

we want one another to be.

Rectify mistakes

and recognise where we went wrong.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you too.

It make me happy when you say it

back when I say it to you.”

Then you put a photo on Facebook

of you and the girl.

The one you travelled parts

of the world with.

The one you would give

your time to,

when you ran from me

you ran to.

The one you say:

“I love her too much

to have a relationship with her.

We spoke about it.

We even kissed

but I realised I love you,

it was you I really missed.

I think of you a lot

I miss your pretty face,

I havent had sex since you,

I miss that, miss us, our space.

That tiny little bubble,

it was so intense,

I miss being in love now

and so hence

I joined a dating site,

the one with lots of fish,

but its you I love Jo.

Its you, its us I miss.”

Then you put a picture up on Facebook

of you and the one that helps you spread the pain.

You write:

“I love my beautiful wife so much.”

and I know I won’t do this again.