Apple tree

My body is an apple tree

The branches weave so far down my throat

I spend most days

attempting not to choke.



You can’t have a fire

Without any smoke – and I am burning.


My body is an apple tree

Some days the twigs expand,

entwining around my lungs

until I’m sure each breath will be my last.


Yet it will pass.

And the birds will still sing,

Each breath will become a wonderful thing

Though even the maggots

can see through my grin.


My body is an apple tree.


The fruit filled with allure,

An illusion of perfection

And rotten to the core


Inquisitive delusion, a lesson to learn

Visitors are plentiful, but never return


A lifetime of loneliness

Is no more than I’ve earned


A long time worn,

Yet the roots hold strong

Throughout internalised scorn

And the notion that I can never belong

Is it so wrong


To need some relief

A moment of weakness

A lifetime of grief

Unevolved from the child

Hiding under bed sheets


My body is an apple tree


Through the storm and the sun

The light and the dark

The old and the young


Entrapped in existence

With one final plea

My mind is in turmoil


My body an apple tree



You’re an independent woman

till you’re pushed to your knees,

As he pulls back your hair

His lips whispers please


And the voices are strong,

Screaming time to go home

Yet the memories that haunt

Are far worse when alone


Home houses the knifes,

Too accustomed to skin

You’ve swallowed them whole

Now they cut from within


And that full length mirror

Gave to you as a gift

Captured the moment

You first made yourself sick


Whilst Invisible ink

Surrounds your four walls

Every bad word you’ve spoken

Accessible to all


So you comply without haste

You don’t deserve any more

Take one shallow breath

And dissolve to the floor

Chasing nightmares

He stands.

Changing the world in 140 characters or less

It’s a mess.

We all bow our heads

And pretend we are distressed.

we say he’s harmless, an unwanted joke

But  you can’t light match then complain about the smoke


Fighting for change with our eyes tightly shut

With a look of surprise that we’re stuck in this rut

Hoping our children can finally be strong enough

Yet before their voice breaks, they make their cut.


They take their first drug before they can drive

Have sex with strangers, so they feel alive,

Child suicide figures quickly on the rise

Broken before they learn how to survive.


The media is powerful, a key for their lock

Keeping us fearful of the next knock,

Yet there’s always an iPhone to film all the shock

Society narrated by Rupert Murdock.


With wrinkles come doubt,

A resigned disposition.

The years stole away with their hopes and ambition

now unexpected kindness, raises only suspicion

They no longer question, just blind submission


And when thoughts of equality enter their head

They are forced to focus on their struggles instead

I can only surmise that it’s true what they said

“Everyone is equal when they are dead.”

Little boy to little man

Tearful eyes with tiny shoes,

powerless against the flames.

Gritted teeth and swinging fists,

Are different kinds of games.


Inquisitive boy soon learns to hush, 

Wishing he was strong .

But when a fly’s locked in a spider’s web,

Bravery can’t last long.


As the boy’s too big for the web,

He’s lead to the serpents lair. 

Broken voice, yet breaking down 

Fed only on despair. 


A cappellas of insults drown out The Smiths, 

Head pounding to the base.

Fear takes root, deep in his mind,

Watered with his hate. 


Little boy to little man,

In a world he can’t control.

Conflicting claims and twisted words

Are bound to take their toll.


Then one night, as the hurricane rains 

His courage starts to wobble.

Just one more punch, one more word 

he’s reaching for the bottle. 


It silences the voice, that says he’s weak,

Granting him some peace.

The dangerous drug cannot be wrong,

If he can finally sleep.


Angry eyes and size 10 feet,

Flinch as tall men come near.

Yet forty years from his escape 

he cannot quench his fear. 

The monster 

Razor blades tumble from your lips

Your articulate tongue shredding 

those words of comfort 

I hold your hand 

And you crumble at my side

unable to hide the sorrow 

you disdain to express


And suddenly I am a sandcastle

With walls so sturdy and thick 

Forgetting I can be destroyed by the 

smallest of waves.


This is a tsunami.


They say you can ignore the storm

by focusing on sandbagging the pier

But when the bag bursts in your palms

You can’t suppress your fear

 When bracing for the water 

you underestimate the creatures that swim

Your brain tries to comprehend

 how the world can still spin

Only aware of the monster 

as it tears you limb from limb

 And yet by this point the pain is a welcome relief


Then it’s over

And they act like it never begun

Smile at waves, complement the sun

And the holiday makers return to the sand 

Yet you cannot sunbath in silence

When people ask why it took so long 

I can only surmise : 

In order to scream you have to be able to breath

I can finally breath. 

Thorns have no concept of time

The first blanket of depression pins my arms to my sides, pulls in my chest and fingers my spine. 

a hand testing how much force the bone takes to break 


I am already broken. 


But broken isn’t enough. 

I must be crushed. 

Trodden into the dirt, 

until my hopes and dreams survive only at the bottom of a strangers shoe.  


can witness my demise 

like a withered rose,

well past its prime but the thorns have no concept of time. 


Then wave two appears, 

With ringing in my ears, like church bells

It is every sin, every crime, 

Every lie beneath my eyes

Every bad decision laid out to be judged. 
I am the Judge 


and I am not merciful

How can I be merciful when I’ve been so hurtful. 

My sentence is nothing.

Because no change is this 

The freedom of punishment,

would be equal to bliss

 anything to stop the screaming in my head. 


That being said, 

the third strand brings no relief 

Hands shaking, tears rolling 

A clench of my teeth 


This stage usually brings the blood 

A knife glided so quickly against my thigh you’d think it was art 

It’s not art 

Art couldn’t go so deep 

Then I wait. 

long enough until my body lets me sleep

A moments peace. 

Praying the nightmares will leave me alone


I wish I could talk of bravery, 

Of strength overcoming pain

How the battles are hard but I’m winning the war. 

This is not a war, 

This is slaughter 


I am not a soldier 

I am the mouse under their feet   

It is the poison in the wine 

It is the insect in the heat. 

The hand wound tightly in my hair, 

Whispering deep into my ear 

every insult that has ever left my lips 

It does not fight fair, 

But then again, neither do I. 

Mary Magdalene

 The Mary Madeline, 

tied to her crib 

But the welds on her wrists 

Won’t compare to his. 


Hiding in the shadows

Validation unclear 

Sprinting into action

Only when he is near


Mothood and maiden 

A Crone for the king

The lost soul for the savior 

A tale to begin? 


Wiping out her existence

Limiting her time

Shaming her life style 

Been forced into crime 


Now the children are starving 

She scrambles, undressed 

The world crumbles around her

Yet they say she’s blessed. 


Their eyes are hurricanes

Destructive and deep

A statue of stone,

Too pious to weep. 


A sinner with the savior 

Yet the irony is lost 

We’ll bury the memory 

And pray to the cross. 


Individual reality

With no means of control

Secluded and peaceful

You shut down your soul

Headphones and crisp packets

Breathily killing time 

Silent and still 

As his eyes meet mine 


Lipstick lined with confidence 

Innocence with lust

Lost in the motion 

A mutual distrust 


A lullaby so gentle

The mother’s arms are steel 

Preparing for arrival

Unable to feel


Separation comes quickly 

A harsh fall from grace 

The senses are muted 

You return to your place. 

Strong and stable 

Purple flowers swarm her eyes, 

adjusting to the inevitable loneliness, 

the doll she once cherished 

a long ago friend.

She is too old for dolls

too old to pretend.


she contorts her toes into last winters boots, 

Feet slamming against the wooden floor.

Her heartbroken mother weighs safety with coins.

A child crying from hunger is hard to ignore.

We are strong, and we are stable. 

Yet her body is weak. 

The rent is overdue 

And it’s too cold to sleep. 

“And in tough times, 

everyone must suffer pain.” 

But what is a paper cut 

compared to a flame? 

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