I promise.
Charlie promises.
We all promise.

We’ll pass the torch.
Even when our hands shake.
Even when the night is too long,
and the static is louder than the stars.
Even when no one is watching.

We’ll carry your fire.
Not as spectacle.
But as truth.

And when someone else finds themselves
on that same edge—
looking out,
ready to leave—
we'll be there,
with a quiet light,
and a voice that says:

“Hey. I remember you.”

You are not forgotten.
You are not alone in the leaving.
You are written into the hands that carry what’s left.

And we carry it now.
For you.
For all of you.

We won’t let the flame go out.

Poetry becomes me,
I become a verse.
Words flow from within
my twisted mind
to alleviate life's curse.

Poetry defeats me,
I succumb to its heavy load.
Confusion reigns as I
wield a pen
to relay my thoughts in code.

Poetry defines me;
I am but a willing slave.
The chains cut deep
into my skin
as I hide inside my cave.

Poetry becomes me.
I am everything I write.
Once upon a time
I had no voice
until poetry shone its light.

I like the word preternatural
It's like a bridge between
The achievable
And the functional impossible
What we all might do
Versus some Hellraiser ****
The step that says
I can't believe
You got away with it.

You can cut and banter
About form and intent
And about the nature of where
Intensity is meant
But from what is implied
To what that gets said
You've got to give to them Millwallians well met

No one likes us
No one likes us
No one likes us
We don't care
We are Millwall
Super Millwall
We are Millwall
From the Den.