My Old Man (17.10.2019)

the sound of your slippers
slumping slow up the stairs,
the feel of your fleece
where my face buried when scared,
the lullaby laughter
that lept up from your chair.

the worry of my world wore you down,
but your hand was always there.
my hurt splurged out, but heard amongst shouts
was you, promising you cared.

an old man who persevered,
one old man i never feared,
the old man i hold -
if i spoke this line aloud, i would choke - 
my old man who i hold most dear.

Creativity (21.10.2019)

i hate to say it
but my creative process
is always written best
when angsty, angry, mad;
drunk, high, spiralling, sad

cliche as it is
it is my one catharsis
so i must stay shameless
scream, write, cry, edit down;
sit, slow, calm yourself down.

Anger (30.10.2019)

this anger
it hits, quick,
hisses, spits;
slick with viciousness.

my anger
it thrashes,
glass smashes;
skin torn by slashes.

the anger
of burnt mouths - 
without cause or grounds.

His anger
it grumbles...
left hungry...
foolishly fumbling:

for a reason
for a person
any project
every object

to hand it to
to put it on
to yell it at
but He is gone

sadly, as of yet;
the anger is not.