The hardest thing I did this year,
was to stand up at your memorial service
and read one of your poems about nature.
I mean I’m a city boy, made of streets and brick,
reading a poem about the wisdom of trees.
Trees, my only concern with them
is when they drop their leaves
on my lawn.
But now I read your poem,
a poem whose words grew and blossomed
from the earth that nourished them.
Words to me that feel like
pebbles in my mouth.
Afterwards when I get home,
I take the paper with your words and
bury them under the tree,
at the bottom of my garden.
I thought you might appreciate it.
I’m the fresh milk in your latte,
The crisp salty bacon in your roll.
The clean empty seat on the train,
The freshly tarmacked pothole.
I’m the work spreadsheet that won’t balance,
The disembodied electronic voice in the lift.
The email that invites you to an all day meeting,
The feeling you’re not alone on the night shift.
I’m the missed call on your mobile phone,
The last five percent on your battery.
The text message from someone you don’t know,
The unknown person photobombing your selfie.
I’m the treacherous black ice on the pavement,
The hard rain that drives and stings.
The wind that smashes grit into your eyes,
The unexpected crack of thunder and lightning.
I’m the decaying pigeon corpse on the footpath,
The cracked paving slab that twists your feet.
The steaming vomit at the bus stop,
The brick wall that blocks the end of the street.
I focus on….
The dough not the nut,
The beer not the gut,
The joy not the division,
The tunnel not the vision,
The Doctor not the who,
The crazy not the glue,
The under not the exposure,
The game not the over,
The world not the war,
The eye not the sore,
The banana not the split,
The bull not the shit.
Freedom is reading your favourite book until you fall asleep,
without having to stop as censors have chopped out the “harmful bits.”
Freedom is walking wherever your feet fancy taking you,
and not finding your path blocked by someone in uniform.
Freedom is singing along at the top of your voice to a much-loved song,
not having to worry about being reported as antisocial.
Freedom is being able to write whatever you feel,
never worrying about a knock on your door in the dead of night.
Freedom is falling helplessly in love with whoever your heart chooses,
with no fear of being blindfolded and stood against a wall.
Your heart is a black hole.
A crushing singularity to nowhere,
Which I poured my love into,
Only to have it lost in its depths.
With no chance of escape.
As I walked home from the open mic,
My head was on fire with poetry.
Then the heavens opened,
The rain hissed as it hit me.
Extinguishing my spark,
Sending me running for home.
Where still dripping my hand,
Reached instinctively for my pen.
And as I wrote I began,
To smolder again.
You say you’re willing to die for your art,
You declare it proudly with all your heart.
You take the mic up and so you start,
Sleeves rolled up to display your scars.
I once knew a bloke who didn’t proclaim,
He just simply took a razor blade.
Then down his wrists a cut he made,
Never committing his hopes and fears to the page.
I’m still listening to you saying you’ll die for your art,
You’re still declaring it proudly with all your heart.
But when we both roll our sleeves and compare arms,
You and me both just have paper scars.
You told me that you wanted to go looking for a different me,
So although it was a struggle, I knew I had to set you free.
Then at last you could find someone who was perfect,
Until you found fault with them and moved on to the next.
You left a crimson trail of bruised and broken hearts,
As no one was good enough for your fresh start.
So you resorted to profiling and DNA matching,
To try to identify who you should be catching.
But despite all your questionnaires and surveys,
You couldn’t find a different me who’d even meet you halfway.
Because no matter how hard you look,
When they made me they burnt then threw away the book.
Everyone is different, but everyone is also me,
I needed you to discover that, so I set you free.
So when you returned to me from your futile quest,
I would be the different me that you loved the best.
But now you’re back, to my heart I must also be true,
That’s why I’m going looking for a different you.
This morning I was a firework.
Filled with fire and light
I aimed for the sun.
Though it was hard, I didn’t care.
This morning, I was a firework.
Spent and full of ash
I fell to the earth.
It was easy, I didn’t care.
I am not afraid of dying
I am not afraid of taking my last breath
I am not afraid of the end,
I am not afraid of death.
I am afraid of lying in the grave,
I am afraid of being buried with my regrets.
I am afraid of not being able to rest,
I am afraid of what I can never forget.