Reading poems from,
2013-2018,
On here is like,
Walking through the graves,
Of dead poets,
Who breathed breath,
And sang songs,
For years just like us,
But they aren't on here today,
To show us that,
They breathed breath,
And sang songs,
Before their beloved art's,
Death.

Blank canvas,
Is still creative.
Because the fact is,
You can only paint an original blank painting,
Once.

bending pictures to fit into someone else’s frame –
their life… is it not so beautiful from the viewer’s eyes
in some profound way, they must think of me in the
same kind of way

our pictures are stained,

with shame, pain, loss, hardships, desires, envy, bitterness
but you don’t know this of me… you get to watch the picture
while I painted all its vivid features
I don’t know this of you… cos I watch your picture believing
its much more unique – but you and I are pieces that are

                    incomplete.

Maybe art is exposing my soul,
Leaving it raw and vulnerable under
The gazes of all those
Who wander in the museum of my
Heart.

Maybe art is an exercise in understanding,
Where we strain to make sense of
Darkness we’ve never seen the depths of,
Or light that we long to be warmed by
But can’t quite reach.

Maybe art is a meeting of kindred spirits;
An understanding that you were never alone,
Even when you were drowning and no one
Could hear you scream.
Far away, your words echoed, and in
The mind of another lost soul,
They found their place on the page.

A troubadour seeking Abby Road

Strolling with his dog Marshall

Scarlet Shoes, ruby holster

Bus pauses, traffic stops

Stories and secrets housed within six strings

The calm before the storm

Solitude before the chaos

The writing on the wall

Flashbacks of decades gone flutter past Zebra Crossing

Seeking the home of the loud

Touching lives of strangers in ways unknown

A pocketful or crumpled ****

It’s the destination not the journey

Sideway glance….all eyes on me

My swagger makes them stagger like a pub crawl

Bought my confidence in a second hand shop

But I’m trying not to fall in these shoes

Watchful eyes stare at him from the top of the bus

Beneath this stone, a soul now rests,
A life once filled with endless quests.
To find the self, a journey true,
Through art and ink, a path anew.

This body, a canvas for the mind,
Etched with symbols, a story defined.
Tattoos, a testament to the heart,
Expressing truths, never to part.

In youth, a search for identity,
Grasping for answers, a fragility.
But through the brush, the pen, the needle's touch,
A self emerged, no longer in such.

The artist's hand, a guiding light,
Unlocking doors to inner sight.
Colors and lines, a language divine,
Revealing the depths of this soul's design.

Tattoos, a tapestry of life's tale,
Scars and triumphs, never too pale.
A map of experiences, a road well trod,
Etched upon flesh, a testament to the divine.

In this final resting place, a life well-lived,
A journey of self-discovery, freely given.
Through art and ink, a legacy left behind,
A testament to the power of the human mind.

May all who pass by this humble grave,
Be inspired by the life that here did crave.
To find their own path, their own true self,
And let their story be told, not left on a shelf.

For, in the end, it is not the years that matter,
But the mark we leave, the lives we shatter.
This soul, now at peace, has found its way,
A life well-lived, a masterpiece displayed.