The easiest way to put it, is that I want to be saved.

The easiest way to put it,
is that I want to be saved.

I believe we lie to ourselves,
everyone is waiting for reassurance,
a promise that there is better awaiting.

Everyone thinks they’re worthy of prophecy,
redemption by default.
Ah that lurking thing!
That hovers between our sides, that aches and moans for conviction,
we’re sentenced into madness.

But she waits for no one,
she’s poetry,
and she never has to write a word,
speechless servitude,
graceful and clear,
tunnel visioned,
loyal to her cause.

I’ve seen women drown in prose,
who wear fire on their eyelids,
and they’re hardly the soul you’d want by your side,
and others mute,
hiding behind a veil of concern and courtesy,
and you’d never know who they are.

Choke on your mind,
gag on your ability to put another man down,
feed that insatiable self until gluttony is so habitual,
it’s inevitable you’ll be the only one,
left to your wit and mock,
the lonely laughing stock.


try to


I want to decorate her soul
with a bouquet of bewitching
but my hands are tied
leaving me mute and itching

My tongue is lit
with rhyme and resin
the knot of doubt
and apprehension

Expression and love,
blasphemous mention
unspeakable prose
allegoric intention

I’m shackled, I’m placid
I’m raging in noose
all I want for you
all I try to do
helpless, fruitless
of no use


Vulnerable Beautiful


I loved you……
When you were battered and wounded,
Scarred and traumatised,
Ignorant and alone,
What do you think I feel for you now,
That you’ve created a home,
Raised children on your own,
Threaded buttons of love,
Seamed souls and lives sewn,
The art of motherhood honed.
I see nothing,
But a woman on a throne,
Confident, tenacious,
Able to stand alone,
Ready to tear a man with her teeth,
Suck life out of his bones.

And in the end, wasn’t it all worth it?
The pain of travelling,
The blisters of repetitiveness,
The wearing of your sternum,
As you heave yet another breath.
The thinning of being,
The reduction of self,
The realisation of other,
The becoming of mother,
The purified lover,
The shelter,
The cover,
My smother.


Give her a spine

mongol2-Picture from the insanely beautiful movie, Mongol

Of what use am I as a husband,
if all she becomes is a pin board for compliments,
a fisherman’s net for catching my lies,
a canvas to paint her with strokes of lust,
or a writers pad of architectured prose?

Men have lost their way.
They’ve allowed the dictates of society to force upon them an inferior model of behaviour towards their wives, towards women in general, towards themselves.

Father does not even bother to teach his son, mother bares no responsibility, the education ‘system’ was never about educating and societies members? Too self absorbed and cowardly to correct an ill.

Men have strange ideas about behaviour towards women. If it is not at one extreme it is at the other. Either they have fallen victim to the sway of pop media and culture and feel they have to rise to this shallow and empty love rhetoric, prancing around women in an undignified way, trying to be as effeminate as possible to nurture their femininity, ironically whilst she takes on more masculine traits, or they go to the other extreme and act like complete savage, patriarchal brutes. Either one is structured around the model of worship, idolatry to be exact.

Either he is worshipping her, enslaving his mind and soul to her fetishes or she is worshipping him, submissive to his every whim and desire. He either finds new thumb tacks of door mat, down trodden style behaviour, laden with idol-worship compliments pinning it all over her, or he unmercifully beats her down with his inhumanity.

The balance is away from both of these extremes, it is in nurturing her not as an object of worship, but as a human being in need of growth. If you can’t teach your wife (or husband for that matter) something new every day, something to benefit them, grow them, nurture them, improve them and make them better human beings, then you have no business being in the sanctity of marriage. You’re wasting both your time and your children will also gain no benefit from you.

Your ultimate love is not as the short piece above mentions, in pretty words, or gestures. It is in your ability to create beautiful human beings. Your children wont stand a chance if you don’t nurture and improve one another.

My job as a husband and the way to show her love is by making her a better person than I am, better than when I met her and her to me, not to adorn her with temporary accessories she can discard when she feels like or demand more of, never truly offering her a measure of contentment.


Introversion – 25


Few are the women that have tested my mettle,
 Have measured the fabric of my soul,
Or lined the seams of my ego,
Only one, wore my cloak.

The cloak is one of armour,

Full metal jacket,

Heavy not with material,

But my character weight,

Laden with my demeanour,

A burden of my attitude.

It’s weight can only be tolerated by thighs of resilience,

A fortified back,

Shoulders of breadth.

As a result, it will shield her,

Harm won’t be near her and even if it were,

It would crumble in attempt.

It will swarm her with a desire to rise to it’s responsibility,

Build her own mettle, her own metal,

Until she doesn’t need me clothing her,

But is my equal, removes the cloak and walks besides me,

Rising to the occasion to hand her own cloak, with me, to our children.

– W.E.