Day by day, we get up, and we go t… People pass by, each day, we don’t… Day by day, we live our own way Day by day, we live on what we say We all live, behind a mask, that s…
In the grim stupor of darkness It hinders the slipping thoughts Of my mental universe As I scream the flops For the ratchet
When your heads in a field of emot… And your eyes are in a dance floor… And sneak in a collaboration with… Whizzing round in the idleness Of… You clip in the depth and pull up…
I try to clap with my elbows Then get distracted By a poetry infusion Yes! I know what you mean But I’ve delivered my mind
The Amphibious Poet Deep down in the ocean Writing a poem on slate As the fish swim in motion Diving down for inspiration
A Dead man becomes a Snowdrop A Dead Women a Bluebell Dead children become Buttercups a… On a Golden field on Sunshine hil… Our Spirits become Flowers
As my avenue eyes Glimpse and venture Upon scatters of fresh meadows Of warm grown words As your tears trail upon
My father was a trampoline maker But he had his ups and downs But when he sprung his life into a… He nearly ended up in town My mother made pogo sticks
As I explore the legacy of featur… The presenter lifts the lid on the… And a woman seeks the feel of her… As I sit disjointed making romper… Then I get a visit from a chef
When there’s not a lot to do And your mind has too much informa… When there’s not a lot to do And your fed up with your location You look in corners, for a lost vi…
In the waves under a Dancing moon Like a caterpillar out of a fresh… This after Deaths sweep clean wit… You can’t wait for bad memories to… And to fill up with sunshine’s for…
A slip in the dripping croak of di… A campaign to relax in sci fi From a clapping ball boy in Berli… The lucrative freaky can of worms A social media Polaris stinking
How many Psychiatrists does it ta… You tell me, Says the Asylum inma…
It could be worse Written on the gravestone In the unkept churchyard by the se… Other Dead people had it worse th… It’s no good feeling sorry for you…
Wandering around in Silky Pyjamas Playing a trombone The dusty old red curtains hang From the chipped framed window A material like face gurning
