“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.”

― Leonardo da Vinci



Though I am no Shakespeare, I do enjoy writing poems now and again; poetry and mental health are a match made in heaven.


What is a scar but a battle that has been won?
A mark of a fight and a survivor that stands.
A badge of honour and a sign of strength,
The ability to heal when one’s pain does feel.

A trophy we hold in each scar, so why shun?
Do not limit to feel through just your hands,
It’s impossible not to blemish at life’s length.
There is no need to hide or to conceal,
Your marks of a warrior, a soldier in fight,
Be proud and shine your scars in all’s sight.




She leans on his warm shoulder,
He promises to always hold her,
A love so pure cannot be denied,
Sweetly tragic as she decides he lied.

Piercing her heart is an embedded thorn,
From a past of the most harrowing fairy-tale.
A prince disguised as a cunning villain,
With a mirage of faultless promises – sworn.
She would never wear her mother’s lace veil,
Her life is set to be no more than a civilian.

Poison she drank willingly from a love so pure,
Death became her – for a future she is not sure.




Eyes forced closed the memories flash,
One’s entire life, being, in a millisecond,
Like an eagle circling its frightened pray,
In the distance a lion raw, filling my ears.

Damped grass bathes my knees as I crash,
I feel the reaper, I am being beckoned,
I look him in the eyes and bid him good day,
A spinning world, full of my darkest fears,

I still remember, I remember the time,
Every morning, every night, every moment,
Leaning on my shoulders the memories press,
The past is the past, I yell, I stand up to the test.

I clench my tender fists, I ignore the grime,
I laugh, no longer I live in this postponement,
Swamping emotions, the trauma, I must address.
Battle I did, I made it through and I can now rest.

Standing tall, lifting the world with my might,
A strength inside, pure, stronger than firearms,
I am a survivor I say, even when there is fright.
I am a damn survivor I say, though all my harms.



The Ghost

Breathing in, breathing out, standing still,
I stare at the body, the stranger in front.
I analyse each detail, every single fine inch,
Like staring into the eyes of a ghost, I flinch.

Those wide eyes are tired, hooded and heavy,
Lips so cracked and pale, the reaper would levy.
Hair untamed, nails brittle, vulgar appearance.
All so familiar, tightly shrouded with adherence.

I place my hand forward, to touch the tainted skin,
Blocked by a barrier, I feel my patience wearing thin.
Could it be, I cannot believe, the ghost in front that I see,
Is but a glaring reflection in a dusted mirror, this is me.




One, Two, Three.
Four, Five, Six.
No turning back,
I’ve made my choice.

Burning eyes wide open,
Assembling my weakened grasp,
Death did not collect.
Breathing shallow; I’m still here.

Last eve, the seal was broken,
But the reaper did not clasp.
Relief. I reflect.
A new start, belated New Year.

Reborn through the void,
Strength, power, I did find.
I’m not defined: ignore Freud.
Resilience, part of me, humankind.

Alive. The future will come,
I will see tomorrow’s sun.




Ombre shades of the spring trees.
Movement of the dense clouded sky.
Silent buzzing of the determined bees.
Kindred birds on a journey as they fly.
Sweet rush of the midmorning breeze.
Nursing warmth of the morning sunrise.
Violent crashing of the waves at sea.
Dance of the saplings as they arise.

Happiness. It’s all you.



A Note To Myself When Filled With Self Doubt

There will be times at dark night,
Or even in the early morning light,
That you’ll be filled with doubt,
You’ll want to scream and shout.

When that familiar fear settles in,
Remember what matters is within.
Through trauma you have survived,
A life at sea into which you’ve dived.

Unfair you may say, a cruel world,
Blame and uncertainty you will hurl.
An anger so deep and set in its way,
Sometimes it’s hard to keep it at bay.

But have you noticed the strength inside?
Scars providing a thick skin full of pride.
A soul wiser than one can imagine,
Wear your pride, you friendly old dragon.

As time will soon pass, taller you’ll be,
More roots than a distinguished oak tree.
When that self-doubt sets in, remember,
You are but the purest golden ember.



Privacy Policy

Powered by WordPress.com.