To All The Fools...

They splash out on fast cars,
Big houses with pools,
Think they can conquer anything
Because we’re the fools.
They try to make us forget
By doping us with media
The advertisements aren’t a coincidence
They’re not there to feed ya,
No, they’re not your salvation,
Just another damnation.
And we’re happy to live this life
In front of a TV screen
Not knowing how to get up
And realise what we’re missing.
There’s alcohol, cigarettes and drugs
To make us think we’ve got a choice
But they’re just another function
To stop us from having a voice.
Free speech is compulsory
If we pay the right price
Anyone can have it
So long as their freedom will suffice
Our eyes don’t see the things
That their ears hear,
Our hearts don’t beat the way
Their brains make clear.
How can we be of any use?
When war feats a territorial motion
That keeps us thinking we’re on the right side
While the business men benefit with promotion.
It fucks up my mind
To think of how we have been bred,
Brought up to believe anything
Lies since day one, we were all spoon-fed!
And it’s not gonna get any better
Till we stop this slave labour
And make them pay all their faults
And do it in our favour.
It was never meant to be like this
We are our own identity
They never should have stopped our instincts
And put up walls of apathy.
It can’t be helped they say
Just ‘one of those things’
Well I can’t help but wonder…
That we’re the workers in this hive,
And every time we use our sting
We lose our hearts and die.

See Inside My Head

Dedicated to all men and women who have suffered at the hand of expectation and the burden of unfilling what others - before them - have fuillfilled. Especially to all the great Hollywood actresses of the 1900's and the men of Post-war Britain. So much opportunity and so much direction but so little encouragement and pride from those they wish would love them the most. And last but not least; to all those who think they have to comform and comply to anything but themselves, stay the person you are, do not change for the sake of 'duty' or others who do not appreciate the true value of life.


Can you see inside my head?

Reach in

And pluck out

Every bit of jelly-like substance

Untill I am only

Left with an empty skull.

This is how you see me -

Empty.

Like a vase without flowers

Or a book without words

I cannot be rewritten

As you had hoped.

Your ideas are not mine

I am 'The Ideal'

Blank slate to poison

See the blood dripping down

Dried brown like Earthly dirt.

I am 'whole' not 'a hole'

As you made clear

Unlike I - ambiguous and

Buried by those who do not

Seem to care.

I inhabit this shell

And you - my friend

Will never know such hell.

She Only Had Herself to Blame...

After reading 'Inspector Calls' by JB Priestly and Marilyn Monroe's biography, I put the themes together along with my own ideas (arguably the weaker components to this poem) and created this; 
(Still think if it as a draft, not sure when and if I'll come back to it though)



There once was a girl,

pretty as can be.

Grew up in an orphanage,

Never did see her family.


She was told they would come for her

One day, when she was older,

They said her pa would pick her up at 12

And carry her upon his shoulder.


When the clock struck 12

And noon had come,

Every day she would wait and wait

Thinking they were just running late.


But as she reached the age of 10

she realised they never were,

and they never would

come to collect her.


She grew up pretty fast

And began to hate her looks,

She learnt no-one would take her seriously

Never think she was into books.


The orphans used to call her names

Or pretend she wasn't there,

Then she began to use her looks

And they began to stare.


The boys would whistle to her

And beg her to come near,

The girls would talk behind her back

Hoping she would just disappear.


But time came to pass

And she was no longer adored,

Only good for one thing (Or so she thought)

A night out, a meaningless fling.


Some pills beside her bed

To help her sleep,

Were discarded on the floor

Amongst a dirty clothes heap.


She saw the bottle there

And thought of all her life,

Thought of each and everything

And all the troubles she was supressing.


Those pills are now inside her stomach

46 to be exact,

She was calm when swallowing them down

She saw death as a 'matter of fact'.


Now her body rots inside the earth

Below the ground we walk upon,

You see, it's never our fault

The poor girl; we shouldn't dwell upon.


She was always such a hopeless case

We knew it was bound to happen,

I think you'll find it was customary

She got what she deserved,

No self-respecting girl would have done the same

So we can only put herself to blame.