Faked it.


Why is it so hard to say those words out loud. I feel alone.

I feel the empty expanse between myself and other beating hearts. I feel the expanse between myself and the synpases that make the very world spin round. I feel the expanse between the words being said and the thoughts being heard and the emotion that threatens to swallow me piece by piece.

But I am running.

Little squares fill calendar pages, and messages fill inboxes, sweat fills pores, and flesh fills flesh. Yet I am alone. The more I try to fit in and fill myself up the more the wash of echo fills my soul.

Busy doesn’t mean human. It means avoidance. When I stop I feel. When I stop it all ebbs out from all the crevices I’ve been trying to fill. Disconnect is such a term that threatens missing out, it threatens lack of knowledge, it threatens inner voices to rise louder than the distractions I use to block them out. To disconnect is to connect.

Gasping for realisation, when it hits. The tears drip unconsciously, because all the filling is no longer and it is only feeling left and it hurts. It fucking hurts, like a lost laser scarring the eyes onlooking. It fucking hurts, like stubbing a toe – instantaneous and then it kinda fades away and the pain is absorbed into your bloodstream and it becomes a part of my fabric.

My fabric that is so full of chinks, of loose stitches and patches sewn on to save. My fabric that is handmade from all the beautiful things that feel like your whole life is incredible and you can’t imagine life getting any more fantastic, like the high you feel when in love. Or the fabric that is handmade when you only have your hands to hold it together and sometimes those very hands can be the things that tear it all apart.

I’ve got nothing to hide, but yet there is everything. Underneath it all, I think I mask who I am to myself more than anyone else. I faked it too hard, and now I can’t escape the boxes that I’ve built around myself.







Don’t feed it.

Dwell. Wait. Lie.

Lie in wait to dwell.

The stretch of breath, creating space where spaceless.The hunted feeling of tomorrows. The gasping yawning chasm of undefined.The empty purpose pouring into industriousness

Is it the heart that really feels? Is it? Or is it the brain so conditioned to know the very thing that is to be its best and worst knowing.

A pre-defined plethora, etching to stuff the caldera to the periphery.

The big black dog grows heavy with contentment.
He feeds on the very qualms that drives you to invite him in in the first place.

Intent for a walk along a path, the black dog waits in earnest for a moment when you are distracted and leaps into the woods bounding after a seemingly empty wood.

The wood is far from empty, with fears a feasting, doubts a dancing, lethargy lounging, self loathing a singing. With each step you try to resist – but the pull is great and the big black dog takes you to the warmth of the forest where the creatures of the wood take you in their arms.

The path is in sight, but the energy is emptying and the heart is hardening and sinking into the hole of despair that is an abyss below your feet.

The path gets dim and there is only the dog, leading you on so you clutch at what you know as your light gets dimmer and you can only move for the big black dog is leading you.

The extra ordinary strength it takes to yank the dog from his endless stride into the forever blackness blurring your eyes is exhausting.

The only saving grace is the giant hand of comfort delivered through the endless satiation of the addiction pulsing through your very being. The addiction of variable nature, halting the dog in his tracks, teaching the big black dog to sit.

But more importantly the hand teaches him to play dead.

Good boy.


it is in.


Ripping through translucent reverie.


Splitting inside shakily sustained sanity.

Stillness that is a rock in the core of an inner world

Stillness that empties the mind of buzzards, beating, banging and barging the very beautiful parts of who we think we are.

It is in the whisper of the forgotten lyrics.

It is in the rush of bodies, a forgotten sorry.

It is in the dry eyes at the life lost.

It is in the orgasm that never comes.

It is in the missed beat of the missed breath pounding down the path on a crusade to make your body cry the very fat that keeps it alive.

Listen for the stop.

There is always a pause.

A solace that can tear open the heavens and let the light flourish.

Tremor felt in the lightest touch of skin to skin.

It is in the detail that you missed as you wander through the vacuum of the world in your palm.

Wildfire. Thunderbolts – stillness.

There is calm in the eye.

What the fuck are we going to do when the eye is closed?