That smell. 

That fucking smell.

The air that sticks to your skin,

Seeps into your lungs, 

and forces memories into the forefront of your mind 

like tunnel vision. 

That distinct smell that screams 



chemically nausisating fumes 

that infuse with the body, 

like sugar in your coffee. 

The air that is consistantly accompanied by 

the rattling of wheels, 

the beeps of equipment, 

and the occasional cough 

that accurately predicts the future 

of a human who is within arms reach. 


and create new memories for yourself 

to ponder upon, 

in the not to distant future. 



I know that you are hurting.

Your mind is playing wicked games, 

I know that you grow weary.  

You ask me:

Why do I feel this way? 

Why am I still alive? 

The words stumble on my tongue 

as the noose tightens round my throat. 

The river has dried

and the salty water no longer has a clear path,

Shades of blue and black blur my vision, 

but my face bulges deep rouge, 

my extremities tremble, 

my chest tightens 

and screams for one last breath 



Have it. 

I will just fill the void with empty words 

and thoughts that have no meaning,

so take it. 

My final gesture. 

Maybe then 

you will feel something new. 

Page ? / 7 

As it turns out, I have met such a person. This person breaks the foundations of these preconditioned expections given to us from our society. These types of people are few and far between, similar to a butterfly in the way that they are floating. A butterfly may land on your skin and you are suddenly overcome with a sense of joy. Why did this butterfly choose me?  Has a butterfly  ever landed on your body and you just stare at it in awe? I have. Why did it land there? What is it doing? Why does it appear so calm around me when I have seen rabbits and foxes alike fleet in fear from my mere presence.

This person is not unlike the butterfly in the sense that I cannot comprehend why it landed on me. She has wings so she could very easily escape or fly away if she so wanted to. But, feeling the butterfly on my skin is a pleasant sensation. It reminds me of my own existence, and maybe that is enough. When the butterfly is present, the chords that were so harsh and grating on my ears begin to resonate and harmonise perfectly. 


Have another drink

you’re already drunk,

without any money or love,

whilst feeling the stares

of all those girls

that you were always too scared to meet.

Raise your hand for one last time,

though you are afraid,

that you may be wrong,

Push yourself across that edge

it doesn’t matter if you fall off.

Shudders in your voice

and twinges in your feet,

electricity down your spine

make a move

it’s time to go

before you run out of chimes.

The moment is gone,

you failed to move

and now you must dwell in the past.

So pour one more  drink

pull out another chair,

and feel that wobble beneath you.


Do not worry about the magpie. 

It worries not about you. 

I will bring you seven of my own, 

delivered in a fine roux.  

When the hand has moved for one last time;

when the dirt and insects on the ground are hidden by thick intangible weeds, 

you will acknowledge me. 

But even then,   

acknowledgement comes at a heavy price, 

for you will throw the sparrow into my home, 

and walk past me on the stairs.

But I acknowledge you. 

Gouge out my eyes

You will still feel my stare.

You sit belly bulging.

Are you satisfied? 



Accept the normalities,

and embrace the insanities

of everyday life.


I feel the aches that flow underneath my skin,

the suffocation within my veins,

and the frailty of my bones.

The feeling spreading throughout my body

smothering clarity,

taking its leave

with you.

Hiding in the shadows,

I will emerge one day

revealing myself without chains.

The shackles will no longer be present

and I will finally

be free.



I walk down the steps of purgatory,

broken and sweating.

My feet bloodied and bruised,

I continue to walk.

I drag my cast iron chains,

carrying the scars of my life,

and regrets of my past,

down to the depths of the deepest oceans.

A million miles from home,

I continue to walk.

The sound of drums continue to ring in my ears,

with the bitter taste of  blood on my lips.

Return my sanity to whoever shall take it,

I have no use for it now.

Step into the vertigo,

and surrender my heart,

for that is all I have left.

Even that

is fading.




I sit so quietly at night,

watching you have nightmares,

curled up so tightly, embryonic.

The helplessness

of watching someone dream.

Why do we dream? 

Why are some dreams so pleasant

and others so painful?

Let me pull you out,

pull you back to reality.

It is not much better here,

but at least,

you are not alone.




Tell me,

Do you feel it too?

The tightening in your chest;

the dryness in your throat;

the dropping of your stomach;

the numbness of your limbs,

the sweat in the palm of your hands;

the fog that plagues your mind;

the sickness in your heart.

Tell me

that you feel it too.




Sometimes I look at you,

I stare at you.

Nothing to say,

there are no need for words.

There are none.

No words in any language that could adequately describe how I feel about you.

Any words that I would choose would be a compromise.

I do not want to compromise.

You stare back. Curiosity envelopes you.

What am i thinking? 

You respond with a smile;

a sort of half smirk smile

that extends across your face from ear to ear.

I melt. 

Now I am certain. There are no words.

I do not need any . For in that moment

words do not exist, nor time, nor space,

nor any perception of reality.

In that moment, I am happy.

In that moment, I, myself, do not exist.