our previous pains

can scar us


under the skin

become like a parasite

feeding off us

and we have to

claw it out

then eat it

take it’s power

spit out the poison

and grow bigger

don’t let the insect

take control

I’ll grab the tweezers

and gauze



I’d become disorderly, not drunken

My mood became rapidly sunken

Gone were the laughs and sniggers

Replaced instead with emotional triggers

Half Cocked

Half Baked

This smoking gun

Shooting for shootings sake

Pulling back the lever

of these loaded chambers

Laughing nervously

aiming for my neighbours

Charges became polarised

Hopes went unrealised

Any attention retention

Left my adult self in detention

My trigger finger

became too itchy

and I become

a miser, and bitchy

I need to drop the weapon

place it down on the ground

Get out my own head

and take a look around


Illnesses converge

They dance together

They trade masks

& weave into one another

The physical illness




Affects the mind too

The emotional illness

mood’s oscillation

worst casing


creates a potent virus

Was I the carrier?

Was that my communication?

Can the immune system

adapt now it’s been inflamed?

I’ve had my jabs

Is that enough inoculation?


What use is empathy

if you don’t act on it?

Is listening enough,

When inaction

is part of the problem?

Is sitting down

the answer

to inertia?

Surely not.

I don’t know if I have the capacity

to act any more,

except in the sense of performance;

and even that mask is slipping.

A mask which was never for me,

it was for everyone else’s sake.

To be a solid shape,

a cliff edge

to hang to if they slipped,

not a sand dune.

Without booze,



or whatever other crutch,

I become like sand.

When ‘real life’ infringes

on my anarcho-creative

dream vision

of the world,

I have nothing

but quotes

and platitudes

to offer.

Vague philosophies

and half remembered self-help lies.

I have no practical experience of ‘life’,

just tips on how to avoid it.

If even the most successful of us are riddled

with anxiety, doubt, debt and obligations,

what hope is there

for the rest of us?

What does that mean

for those who can’t always see clearly,

can’t always be chipper,

can’t always be ‘productive’

or ‘good citizens’?

What does it mean for those of us

haunted by the ghosts of our own lives?

There exists a correlation

between those struggling with ‘real life’

and those who struggle with their mind

on a daily basis.

This system is increasingly punishing those people

for their sensitivity, awareness and creativity.

These people run themselves ragged

to give to others.

For this

they are punished,




and socially.

I think

it’s high time

that the lunatics

took over the asylum.