I'm a 25-year-old psychology graduate and Benefits Officer from North East England. Most of my poetry was written during my teenage years, when life was turbulent and emotions were fierce. It seems that the contentment of my adult life is not as inspiring, when it comes to poetry, as the angst, sorrow, infatuation and heights of romantic love that punctuated my youth. I do still dabble with poetry occasionally though, mostly frivolous efforts. Most of my time is taken up with writing fiction these days - almost exclusively dark, expansive and out of this world.
I don't take my poetry very seriously. To me, it is an exercise in writing: a means rather than an end. But if a poem, a line or even just a word that I have written were to move you in some way, I would be very pleased.
Your sweet young soul.
Bind them to me,
‘That we might become whole.
Eyes full of stars,
Touch of your skin.
Open my heart
‘That you might step within.
Yours is the music,
Mine is the passion,
Ours is the symphony
Love comes to fashion.
The Thorn In Her Heart
Now, in the finality,
The good times seem so close
And her pain is mirrored in me,
A thorn in the heart.
Fear blinds my true feelings of what should be,
Casting my choices into doubt.
I brought down our house through uncertainty,
The demon that tore us apart.
Our love brings us pain, yet maintains its beauty,
Like a garden of roses, cut from their stems.
The passion-red flowers will wither so slowly,
But the thorns will forever stay sharp.
The Dead of Night
As I was passing down the alley, a chilling wind flowed through the valley,
Howling mutters, rattling shutters, screaming in my ears.
To my small mind, the sudden gale resounded like a woman’s wail,
And I almost found the piercing sound was not of wind, but tears.
The silence slowly then returned, the wind’s cool passion having burned,
And still my wicker torch did flicker, holding back my fears.
The torch was bright enough to show a figure dancing in the snow,
The fairest scene that I had seen in all my lonesome years.
The shapely form of such a girl, her skin as pretty as a pearl,
Like Juliet of Capulet, the purest of veneers.
Her snow white dress and raven hair, a vision floating through the air,
I stole my chance to see her dance and as I watch, she nears.
In failing light, I saw her face was elegant and full of grace,
More beautiful than any that has ever blessed my eyes.
Yet, as she ventured closer still, I couldn’t help but feel a chill,
As if the air were freezing with the strength to paralyse.
Again the wind began to bluster all the strength that it could muster,
Placing me in quite a fluster, due to my surprise.
Despite the wind, I kept my feet rigid on the snowy street,
As the wind brought to me the cruel sound of desperate cries.
Soon the flame of the burning brand held up by my shaking hand,
Is tossed and thrown and chilled and blown and in the winter, dies.
In darkness, I could faintly see the ghostly form in front of me,
And in my fear, despite her cries, I could not sympathise.
The ghostly visage drawing near gave rise to new, tenacious fear,
The strength of which would prove too much for any mortal man.
And so, afraid, I turned and fled, conquered by atrocious dread,
With haunting thoughts inside my head, I ran.
The snow was crushing under-foot, and crashing as I lifted,
Crunch-Churn, Crunch-Churn, Crunching as I shifted.
My feral fear was reinforced by the firm ferocious force,
Of the frightful fierce and furious wind that ran its fiendish course.
Running through the dark of night,
The moon my only source of light,
I passed the graveyard on my right,
And saw a terrifying sight.
Over the ancient burial mound,
Were spirits rising from the ground,
Then came to me the awful sound
Of ghostly voices all around.
I took the opportunity,
To turn my frightened tail and flee,
The terror now surmounting me,
In my pernicious reverie.
At once, the howling wraiths gave chase,
Unhindered by etheric grace,
And quickly matched my laboured pace,
As I made for a safer place.
Soaring like a blackened host of fallen seraphim,
These apparitions of the damned were surely slaves to him,
The infernal lord who surely spawned this conflagration
Of burning souls and flaring tempests wrought in foul temptation.
Ghostly claws of foul creation, instruments of excarnation,
Thrashed and slashed my body, like a thousand phantom scythes.
I felt no cuts upon my skin, for the pain was deep within,
As if the wind’s fell fury focused where my spirit writhes.
I ran on forward, barely stalling, stumbled slightly, nearly falling,
Desperate to avoid the most deplorable of fates.
Still I heard the dead ones calling, suffered transcendental mauling,
Thankful I had reached the fabled haven of my gates.
On I ran, and up the stair, taking exponential care,
Not to trip or falter there, and face the shadows of despair.
I reached my humble home in strides, and all the safety it provides.
The dark incorporeal tides are held back firm by stone divides.
Now I sit inside, alone, in my sanctum made of stone,
Left to ponder on my own, events that chilled me to the bone.
No mental wall I hide behind can chase the visions from my mind,
Inside my head I am confined to face the demons there entwined.
In my deathly doleful dreaming, wicked revenants are screaming,
Screaming from the rift in me that has been torn into my core.
Though the fact remains unspoken, I am sure my mind is broken,
Dreaming dreams no mortal man has ever dreamt to dream before.
Now my thoughts are churning, turning into something foul concerning
Evils that the least indignant man could not help but abhor.
Presently, my splintered soul is striving to regain control,
Yet, I find that peace of mind is toilsome to restore.
Despite my wits now being rotten, inner thoughts are quick forgotten
With the sound of howling winds and creaking in the floor.
I rise up, shaken, terrified, and soon my fears are verified,
By the faintest noise of fingers tapping at the door.