A Face Lies Beneath The Mask

On occasion I take it off
To stare at the blurred impression
Of my face in a distorted mirror
That replicates a counterfeit.
Sometimes the mask will crack
The porcelain protection falls away
And exposes an ugly truth
That few can ever see.

I take it off to make repairs
To stare into a soulless doppel’s eyes
And realise that it is me
Crying out in the silent screams of flowing tears.
The eyes I hate to look into
Create the fix I need to make my mask whole again
Once rubbed away
A smile returns and the mask returns the same.

But the eyes remain
The eyes remain and nobody can hear them scream
Pleading; asking why, why won’t anyone help me?
While the mask steals precedent from my face.
It smiles and laughs on my behalf
To suit the social standards
And blends me in with the rest of life
My mask’s my face, my secret strife.

I’ve been betrayed, putting up a front
The real me just goes to waste
It’s my mask that you all love
That lie, my shame, disgraced.

Stans World (Working title)

I felt my body jolt as I awoke, eyes flashing open to the glare of ‘no signal’ in brilliant green. Squinting to let my sight adjust.
“Maybe there’s a bird on the aerial” a voice chimed in from nearby.
“Or — something”
Looking to my side, there sat a young man, mid-thirties? In the old chair my mum had given to me. And while I noted him, he leaned forward offering his hand as he spoke.
“Hi. I’m Stan.”

This is how my journey began.

:::::: ::::::

“Uh -”
I stared at Stan’s hand, dumbstruck. My eyes crawling back up to meet his, with a question forming behind them in my mind. Stan grabbed my hand and shook it firmly.
“Well, I suppose you could call it that” he exclaimed.
“Oh, there’s no need to be sorry.”
“What?” Stan seemed as confused as I was.
“Call it what?”
“Oh -!” He snapped his fingers.
“Your home of course!”
“Huh? How…”
“Time works differently for me. It makes things pretty confusing.”
“No. I think that’s you.”
I took a moment to stare at ‘Stan’, as he said his name was. But I must have seemed rather bewildered, because he started talking again.
“Of course not! I simply experience time in a different way.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned.
“Oh. You haven’t asked me that question yet?”
Sighing heavily with a fear I’d regret asking my question and feeling stupid, I took a deep breath to inquire anyway.
“What question?”
“The one about if I’m a mind reader.”
“Are you?”
“No — Like I said. I experience time in a different way. Weren’t you listening?”
My hand connected with the front of my face with an audible SLAP.
“Did that hurt?”
I stared at him through the gap between my fingers. As he settled back into the chair.
“Oh, good!”
I slid my hand up through my hair to the back of my neck while watching Stan, and he watched my every move with an almost childlike joy.
“So — Why did you come to me?”
“I didn’t really come to you, more like — you came to me.”
“What do you mean, I came to you?”
What was Stan talking about? We’re sat in my living room, right? Aren’t we? Is this some kind of odd joke?
“You’re the first.”
“The first?”
“First what?”
“The first person.”
“To –.”
“To arrive.”
I rubbed the back of my neck and chewed on my tongue for a moment.
“But aren’t you?”
“A person? — No — no –.”
“No. I’m not an alien. Not human either, though. It’s — complicated.”
“So it’s –.”
“Just the two of us. But not for too long.”
“I said you’re the first. Not the only.”
“Oh. We’ll talk about that later.”


I haven’t posted anything in a long time, so lets start with a random piece that in itself much like the opening, jolted me awake.  It is in no way a finished nor polished piece.  but the barest of bones.

This is something I wrote after waking up at 1am with an idea that I didn’t fully understand but still found a pad and pen to scrawl it out before falling back to sleep.

When I got up at a more reasonable time, I proceeded to wonder what the heck I had written, typed it up and began to scrutinize what this piece of writing could possibly be.

Correspondence With the Enemy

They walk the path that heroes tread
Entranced, the bugles cry
so many join the honoured dead.
Their souls destined to die.

They all fought hard and all fought well
Across the no-mans land
He’d sent them to the jaws of hell
Led onward by his hand.

War’s not glory; unlike he said
To claim the hearts of men
And with their lives, his hands are red
enough to ink his pen.

He thought it was right, at the time
That Your country needs you.
The great indoctrination line
To help inspire our youth.

Now he drowns, in dead letter days
And haunted by the truth
Of all the lies, he now betrays;
His words condemned by proof.

Driftwood – A Working title

Lost in the fog
the haze cuts
his eyelids
drifting open
pooling with water.

His skin burns
through layers
of soaked
winter clothes
heavy in a river.

The veil of night
slowly burns away
as sun rise
lights his log body
that floats, still.

Bitten and gnawed
just a form
aloft in water
passing beneath
numb flesh.

Dead eyes stare
on forever
into distant places
in natures arms.

Here lies a man
burnt and broken
by the cold of ice
sore in sheets
of woollen warmth.

The flowers blind
with white reflection
of light from unfelt sun
in a cold uncaring room
and steel hospital bed.


Splinters wrench themselves
out of his eyes
as they flake away
from his wooden mind
shaken and cold
he floated in the water
the rot took its toll
his thoughts frozen.

Shards of memory turn to glass
and shatter
drifting in the breeze
as the wind howls
tears are carried away
forgotten truths and lies
a haze of shadows
filling the chasm cracks.

Castaway upon a sea of troubles
lost on waves
of doubt and dismay
his clarity stolen
a storm that shall not clear
as he watches the sky fall
the heart of the storm
hidden behind glassy eyes.


I sit in a dark corner, the Offspring blaring into my ears on full volume, “Spare Me The Details” stuck on repeat, my face, chest and thighs, all soaked through.


‘A fool in love is a fool indeed’.  I repeat the line during the lull in the music before the singing begins, tapping the words upon my tongue to the opening beat before drowning once again.  It is quite surprising how much water can come out of your body without passing out.  I have been sat here for hours now, the stream has stopped for a single moment as I stare into the ground in the darkness, I don’t even notice my eyes blinking to allow another heavy cascade every minute or so.


Music has always had a song that can relate to how you feel, your situation, have some kind of therapy to help you through.  But it is never that easy, if only it were, then I wouldn’t feel this way.  This song felt like the right one, even if the words were slightly off, the mind can readjust things to help it be more suitable.  Ignoring the part about the girl getting drunk, she didn’t need any alcohol to let him fuck her.  I feel so dumb and worthless.  I just wasn’t enough for her, right?


As the battery runs dry, I take the ear phones out and let them hang from my shoulders and neck, forced to listen to myself.  The less desirable sound to wallow in the darkness with, I sob, gulp down air and sound like I am laughing, silently.  A hand presses to my chest and fingers claw at where my heart should be, where the emptiness is instead.  That hollowness that I try to dig into; ripping open my shirt and clawing at my chest desperately, like a dog trying to dig up a bone, my nails tear at my flesh, cutting small lines and incisions into the skin.  The blood is little relief to the agony that overwhelms my physical being, the numb, sharp throb of a migraine behind my chest.


“Why?”  I scream at the top of my breathless lungs, howling into the night.


Nobody is listening, nobody is there.  She is gone, she is fucking another man.  Any other man but me.  I am lost and helpless, a stray dog, unable to find his bone and lacking any reason to exist, sitting down an alley, cold, dirty and dying, slowly.  It is odd, to hope that someone might take me in, nurture me and care for me like someone would a stray and desperate animal, but aren’t we all just animals in the end?  Is it wrong to hope someone can come and help take away my torment, my agony?


Why fall in love.
It is a pointless thing,
often one sided and cruel.
Don’t ever love.
Never be a victim, or prey
to this beast of merciless burdens,
that weighs heavy on the heart,
on the mind, not only love
so too justice is blind,
there is no law for love.
No punishment, though deserved.

We are unfairly tortured.
Loved, lost, left behind
to cry and grasp our hearts
we hold in our hands;
freshly ripped out.
Love is a selfish creature,
a bacteria, a virus
infecting us like a plague,
a Black Death illness
to our spoiled, rotting hearts.
Never fall in love.