Being explicit

My words are not poetry.
My words are just words, showing the truth as I see it, the world as I feel it, knowing that tomorrow my words could change completely.
Poetry expects. It projects depth, and meaning. Every word connotes the authors intention, when often what’s left is just readers invention, and while this deserves attention can we really be sure?
Somehow, I don’t think I care anymore.
Because I’m a fan of the honest outburst that packs more of a punch. I won’t mince my words and leave you with a hunch of what I could really be saying. Ultimately my viewpoint may not even matter, and my defence is weakened by everything I don’t know. But anything I have to the Jury I’ll show. Because I don’t want to pretend I give more than I do.

These words they will mean nothing, until they mean something to you.

And that’s why I appreciate poetry for what it is: an art. But I will not commend it for reflecting a larger part of life than it does. Elliot and Keats… they know their way around words. But even trying to rhyme words for me feels like putting life on a stage, and my rhythms jump around like every thought I’ve ever put on a page.
Because my prose is not perfect. But neither am I.
Despite this, I’ll carry on saying what I mean, because words really can work wonders. They just don’t have to always be pretty and neat.
Even reading this makes me feel pretentious.



He filled his lungs and screamed.
The words themselves were redundant; all he cared about was the noise, the need to be heard, the need to be noticed. Again and again he bellowed, losing himself in the feeling, the emotion.
Was it hatred, or despair?
Was it because he was afraid, or empowered?
The emotions themselves were blurred together; all he cared about were the people with their banners, their rainbow flags and their leather trousers. The smiles on their faces and their hands clasped together. He cared about the grass beneath their feet, being trampled by the crowds defiling his garden, and his space. …How dare they?!
He screamed and yelled, throwing all of his spite and hatred at them, begrudging them their parade and their community. Their complete and utter disobedience with nature.

But these were lost as mere syllables, lost and drowned out by the wind, the same wind that was pushing this crowd forward. They were empowered, and did not notice him. Those who did look his way saw nothing but a statue.
Despite all his protestations, that is what he remained: A statue, cold and impassable.
A relic, unwanted.

I mentioned Freud, how clever am I?

When are the guilty ones innocent?
When is the fool a genius?
When are the promiscuous chaste, and faithful?
When can we not tell the difference?
The answer….?

When these people are family.

We may be open to a degree about our flaws, but however much we argue with family we cannot always see them in black and white. Even those from broken homes long for their parents to be good somewhere, as that is how it is supposed to be. Freud even associated God with this desire in fact, and even if our families aren’t angels, they certainly will never be demons, not really. Maybe they are a bit lazy, or unmotivated; stupid even. But family creates a barrier that means we cannot always accept it, because in doing so we are accepting these qualities in ourselves.
So no, they aren’t lazy, or stupid, they’re just…misunderstood. I know these people; it’s the expectations of the world that define them as such.
I know these people…


A breath; that’s all.
A common response to the commonest call, something we do without thinking but which helps keep us alive.
Have you ever noticed the fact that if you pay attention to it, your breathing becomes more strained, as if the act of recognition somehow brings with it a weight that is contrary to the breath itself?
Because a breath can say a thousand words. It can display ecstasy, passion, worry. It can be quick, or drawn out: exasperated.
When all is considered, all of our actions are undertaken and concluded with a breath, subconscious or not.
I breathe, because I’m living.
I breathe, because it’s started, and I’ll breathe when it’s all over. the words go in, mirrored by a sharp intake of breath. I look down that path and think of all the breaths I’ll take before I can let that air out again.

Nothing like a first time

My first holiday abroad: filled with misconceptions and oversights that have all helped to make it seem so magical. Like the fact that as exciting as the plane is, when you arrive at Palma Airport you still have a long, stuffy coach journey to get to your hotel that acted as my first taste of foreign weather. I am also unaccustomed to passport control and all the rituals of an airport, but this being the first time (well, nearly, as the only other time I only had hand luggage) meant that I was undeterred by the waiting times and the monotony of baggage claim. For me it was a new world, and I felt angry at all the little darling children *cough* who were complaining that this was taking longer than last time. I had not experienced a “last time” and for me it felt like I’d had my holiday just by being in the airport. This was helped by the fact that I was surprised by my well-travelled girlfriend to the private lounge at the airport, with food and drink galore!
This is obviously strange coming from a guy who is nearly 18, but then again I am still excited on Christmas Eve and travelling through the air in a tin can was just the start of my excitement. Over the past week I have tried new foods, been able to swim in the sea without having to psyche myself up beforehand (Wales!), been on glass-bottomed boats and tried a large amount of cocktails because I’m just that manly. But as I said before, it was the oversights and small dilemmas that added to the sense of wonder; accidentally locking us out of our hotel room before breakfast: trying to navigate a new place and realising that I’d gotten lost for the fifth time that day: not realising that I had to pay for water in the hotel. Beyond all else the most monumental mistake was trying to book a trip to a water park without researching it first; believing ourselves to be heading towards water slides and overpriced attractions, we actually ended up in what I can honestly describe as hell on earth – Marineland, Palma. The gravity of our mistake (we had wanted “aqualand”) was realised when we requested our two adult tickets and the rep simply replied “oh my god!” Instead of a park full of exciting attractions, we got a small “zoo” full of bored children and suicidal adults. The slides were replaced with an abandoned play park. The attractions were replaced with mistreated turtles and a monkey with nazi-sympathies, in full view of a bird that was wholly cannibalistic. We trudged around the place in 10 minutes and, deciding we couldn’t stomach the depressed dolphins, we left and waited for the coach home on a beach for 5 hours.
But I recognise this as just part of the fun, a story (although an expensive one) to tell people who would laugh at our mistake. This, combined with the hilarious waiter who gave me a suspicious amount of tequila, the boring receptionist who held a grudge over a bottle of water, and the elderly couple we kept running into complaining about the resort, will always stay with me. If it had been crap, it still would have been mine. But this holiday was amazing for all the right reasons, and the shine of “first-time” really made all the difference.


365 days
Around 50 posts
Around 70 followers
And I haven’t said anything useful. I wish everything was as rewarding as blogging. Sure, those aren’t really impressive stats if you wanted to do this for a living but for a guy who set the thing up on a whim in the hope that I’d find a use for it as I went along, it’s pretty impressive indeed. I still don’t know what im doing, and there have been times where I’ve almost closed the blog due to lack of direction, inspiration etc, but it realised that what I have is a record of my thoughts, and my life, at an important time. I was thinking of a witty post to publish to mark my “anniversary” but typically I couldn’t think of one. You’ll all have to deal with this overly cheesy post instead.
My bad.

Lost in Translation

Fairly baffled to find that a post that I just published on my site has disappeared from my dashboard and reader, and I can’t seem to understand why. Maybe my connection was bad, and it got lost whilst being sent? Or maybe my site is just confused, as it hasn’t actually changed the name of my blog on my iOS app despite me doing so about a month back?
Although there is another slight possibility….
Can WordPress take posts down? Because if so, they may have been slightly annoyed that I titled it “win tickets to the World Cup, sponsored by WordPress”. I can assure you that this was for Ironic purposes only, but the computer does not seem to have detected this technique, and if it has I’m half expecting a post to appear in it’s place that just says “clever-dick”.