Mundane Madness – Wolf am I 

The earth shifted on its axis

Constellations in all the wrong places
It was more than the seasons’ change
A colder wind

I fell into it
A tired and haggard rambler,
And did not want to leave


​Bipolar Phantasmagoria

I want to kill the voices in my head,

Like the things that keep me awake, 

Like a bump in the night,

I want to wake up and just hear myself,

Make sense of the nonsense, 

And have stillness for once,

You see the devil truly does sit on ones shoulder,

He does so only to taunt,

And to laugh at your confusion,

He makes you take notice, 

Stirs up your emotions,

Like a roundabout spinning faster in motion,
I reach out to catch a piece of myself,

A moment for once,

That can stay clear of the commotion,
I am a person although misunderstood,

My mind fights against me, yet my heart is still good,

I’m told I will find peace when I sleep, 

Yet my sleep seems to hide from me,

Like a mistake has been made.

Broken Dreams 

I lay awake some nights, as sleep evades me, 

So I watch the darkness turn back to light.
The shadows that once peeked in through the window disappear to show only shards of light.
The night a distant memory, like the sleep I used to have.

Dreams aren’t always seen in sleep, they can be imagined, and lived in any hour, some of us hide there when life gets to much,  holding on to better memories, or living in our own minds.

My mind is a sanctuary, a library of sorts, where I live when I feel fragile,  and I find things I love…

Books I have read,  sights I have seen,  every image I have captured on camera,  the films and plays I have enjoyed.

This is my escape from the broken dreams,  without this I would not be of this world. 

This Bird Has Crashed, Baby – Andy H

The booze makes an early riser

 Dry lips and

Ex-girlfriends in my
Dreams. I must be ill.

Outside, the crows of
October mark their return
And I light another cigarette
In the dark, balls swinging

In-between, and play out
The play for all it is,
Paying the price for my
Independence and realising

I need no-one anymore.
She messages me to
Enquire of any improvement.
“Still full of **** snot”,

I reply, separated by this
Damned Atlantic, wishing you
Or anyone were here
To lay my head on those

Warm and milky breasts.
You tell me about your
Son and I suspect him on
The spectrum but what do

I know? I’m just another
Man that wipes his arse
Clean and fluctuates on
The edge of my own personal

Madness. “I do love talking
To you”, she says. Without
Any hint of horse-trading,
I type back, ”Me too”. I see

The dots as she types and
Await her answers.