I need to see a therapist.
To pissed. 
To stoned.
My parents left me all alone and
It’s caused some damage.
I’m not well.
Feel like hell.
Due to the abandonment at childhood.
It’s not good.

I need to see a shrink.
Like too much of a drink I’ve been told.
But those old tales
Of people too blind to see true colours
Isn’t me.

I know I’m a lush.
A drunk.
Don’t need to admit it punk, I know what I am.
Open the wine and life starts to turn fine
By the end of the third bottle.
Take some pills and the world’s ills
Just pass me by.

I’ve got abandonment issues, yes
Pass the tissues. My life will make you cry.
Alone. Not one to speak on the phone. 
I’ve stopped answering the door anymore. 

It’s not that I don’t like the company.
They just pretend it’s to see me, but really,
They’re just after the wine.
And frankly, that’s mine.


It’s the little things

You’re running every day,
Chasing those blues away.

You’ve stopped having that one last drink.
More positive thoughts to think.

You’re early to bed.
No more tired blonde head.

You’re writing.
Stopped that inner fighting.

You’re smiling more.
That’s what life’s for.

Every day

Every day the river.
Endless flow.
High tide, a sparkling show.

Every day the clouds.
Breeze, drift.
Blue skies, endless mist.

Every day the trees.
Majestic, proud.
Rustling their thoughts aloud.

Every day the world.
Vibrant, alive.
Just waiting to be opened wide.

A lost pencil

Short, stubby, yellow, chewed.
Looks liked someone
Has tried to nibble your
Black stripes off.

From a pocket
Too full
with imagination.

I want to pick you up and
sharpen you.

But you’re another’s treasure,
Lost as you are.
You need their hand to
Cradle you,
Glide you through verse and script.
Take point to dark and shadow,
Sketch light and love.

I leave you.
Hoping that you will find your
Way to your
True pencil case.

First draft

I’m trying to be a writer.
Hold my breath and count the rhyme.
Out of sync and a deadbeat line.
Feel the measure, skip the verse,
Try the sentence in reverse.
Words aren’t behaving as they should,
Tempo, beat not sounding good.

I’m lying when I say I’m a writer.

Tear the paper, break the pen.
Force yourself to start again.