What is a song without its writer? A dance without the music? What is a soul without its truth?

What can a symphony be if not beauty, grace, spirit? What can a symphony be without you?

You have symphonies in you, kid. You have the B-flats and the E-sharps that many dream of knowing. You have symphonies running through your bright red blood and through your big red heart and out of your fingertips through to the page, the piano.

You have symphonies in you, trust me. You have secrets bound within your soul and deep within your beautiful mind and in the nature of your will. The dream is the synthesised mixture of hope, glory, and talent, and you have it all.

If ever there was a game, you could play it, a song and you could sing it, a dance and you could learn it. Anything that you try and grasp becomes yours; your dreams give themselves to you. Your legs belong to a ballet dancer and your hands to an artist, and a writer, your humour to a comedian, and your wit only to yourself. All you have is so innate and yet so learned, it is mastery of form.

You are a mastery of form, and yet form has made you. You were formed from the symphonies of kings, the soul of a star and with the light of the sun. You have hope living inside of you, magic making a home in the forest of your soul.

You are a masterpiece, a sculpture, you are the gold dust which hurricanes inside of  us in the face of beauty. You are a masterpiece and yet you carved yourself, paved your way, built your house with bricks and pure desire.

You have it all but you’d give it all away. You would give it all away and still have everything. You are an enigma, gold dust, perfection.

I feel a cheat to call you perfection, because you are not. You embody perfection, touch it like a feather and teach it how to talk and walk and love and laugh and learn. You are the student and yet you are the teacher, the moon and yet the sun. You are a shadow yet so full of light.

Your breath is confidence, your voice is our hope.

You don’t just have symphonies, kid, you are the symphony.


Panic attacks

I splutter, my body shakes and it feels worthless.

They are not as bad as other people’s but every little thing matters.

It’s not as if I can’t breathe its just that I can’t not cry.

I want to succeed, I have the will, the motivation, the work ethic, but I don’t feel like I have the smarts, what if I am not as good as everyone thinks that I am? I am so worried that I will not be able to prove myself in my exams, because I do believe that I can do it, and I do want to go far in life.

It sucks that this is what determines if I go to Oxford or Cambridge or the college that I want to.

It sucks that there is no second chance.

I know I try, I just want them to know too.

I love it when you cry

Or do I?

When I see the blue rivers stream down your face, I love you. I want to take you into my arms and to comfort you; I want to be your coffee cup, warming you up and talking you down.

But I can’t. I cannot find the words. How do I find the words? How do you tell somebody that means everything to you that they mean the most to you whenever and whereever they are?

I love it when you cry. I love that you have emotion, a passionate fire within you, encompassing so much that it brings you tears. But I do not love that you feel the fire lick your skin, that you feel it breed ashes on your arms, on your legs.  I do not love that you have to find water to extinguish it, to besiege your opposition.

And so you are the source. The source of your own pain, yes. But the source of my love, my amazement, my stars, my moon. You are my night and my morning.

You are the source of your own river, aching and trembling as you fight back the desperate destruction which hunts to kill, roams only to destroy.

When you cry, it is the most beautiful river, but the most destructive flood, and you are filled with the most red fire, which only you can fight, only you can combat.

I am the one watching on. Stargazing. I want so badly to take you into my mind, to help you to explore the ways in which I love you, I want to take you away into safety, refuge. I want to say a thousand words that will make you feel better.

But I can’t. I cannot find the words to fight your fire. I cannot find the water to extinguish your flames.

All about London.

The bustle of busy people fills your ears. Your head space. But what a wonderful head space to be in.

The rush of business is one virtue of this big city- and it’s a big city for a reason; so many people flock to London to travel, to browse the small corner bookshops, to taste the pastry in a distracting coffee shop, purely because they enjoy the feeling of the breeze. Of course, that would be the breeze as a taxi joins the excited clamour of the London roads.

This city truly is a microcosm of living- anticipation, hope, emotion fill the air and are engraved in the gravel. The tube is an excellently fast way of getting around without exhausting the soles of your shoes, but the real pleasure is navigating your way around this chatty city and feeling it guide you along like an old friend.

So, if you’re considering, even a little, visiting this vast wonderland, consider your favourite coffee, the most thrilling adventure, and the most authentically unauthentic food, but add laughter, happiness, mystic, and the intriguing hum of the city streets, and just go.

The train.

A poem.


She sits on a train,

Head against the window,

Chest against the wall,

Vibrations filling all of her body.


Thoughts caressing all of her,

whispering that she is a sweet nothing.


Blurred fragments of it all stretch themselves,

Bending backwards to isolate her,

They stare at her whilst she stares through them,

And she shuts her eyes to shut it out.


Abused by the sight of their liberty,

gripped by the words that she tries to run away from.


She feels the pain on her face,

And the lust in her body,

She feels disgrace on her chest,

And the game in her body.


She hears the waste of his mouth,

and breathes the taste of his hell.


She sits on a train,

And the pain sits on her shoulders,

Until all of the muscles are twisted,

And all of her strength is gone.


She is weak because she is with him,

it is all dark because she is with him.


She stares out at the dark green,

Small blobs,

And it makes her want it more,

But she is broken.


She feels her body collapse, 

but her she scrunches up her eyes.


She is the most broken of them all,

And she stares at the trees,

Until her eyes bleed with the sights she could’ve seen,

And her mind bleeds with the thought of him.


He touches her,

Takes her for himself.


She sits on a train,

She is going to nowhere,

She is nowhere when she is with him,

She means nothing when she is with him.


The trees stare back at her,

Sharp pines that remind her of it all.


Interrupted buzz fills all of her,

Vibrates her body,

Hurts her more,

But she is broken.


Her cheek is wet,

Her chest is bruised.


It is nothing to her now,

Her body is shame,

He has made her into nothing,

Her life is his game.

How would the cows feel?

An in depth look at their thoughts and feelings…

What would the cows think if they saw all of that left over milk in your cereal bowl? As it will stand neglected, abandoned, and lonely.

What might they say to you if they understood that you only did it for your own selfish reasons? After all, we do it so that we can have softer cereal, a more well rounded bowl of cereal- but what do the cows think about this?

It’s an attack on their trust, as we take their milk and neglect to use it all, they feel forsaken, left in the shadows; they are underappreciated, unacknowledged, but most of all, they are underutilised.

You see, the thing that cows want most for their milk is to feel as though we want it- and how can that be when we leave it behind, not fully loved, and relinquished.

You see, the thing that cows crave to win is our gratitude for their work, for their only work.

But alas, the cows have surrendered. They can fight no more, they have given up trying to convince us anymore to not be wasteful.

Once more, tomorrow, you will fill your bowl. You will cover your cornflakes, your shreddies, your weapons of choice with resplendent, acclaimed milk. Once more, you will add too much, in lust for the virtues it contains, for we all know how wonderful milk can be. But this excess, this unthinking nightmare decision will force you to leave some behind, whilst you take its counterparts for yourself.

How will the cows feel then? When you have once more valued the cereal, over a cows best work?

Poetry for the heart

A Poem.


As a scrawl of words to a writers best work,

you are my everything.


As the endless drafts to seed the art,

you cling to me,

we grow together.


Sewn into me,

bound to me,

as a writers pen to his hand.


And then like the destruction of a storm to his loose pages,

you grab me,

make me cry whilst saying nothing.


Like the words on his pages,

your hands rip into me,

into the delicate binds of my heart.


It tries to pump but does nothing,

I feel nothing,

like a bad book on a bad day.


Like the writer embellishes his words,

purple and blue decoupage covers me,

red paint tries to stick me back together,


And then you touch me,

your delicate mouth on mine,

like a book with a happy ending.


And then you force me back together,

you are forced to be mine,

you are the only one that can fix me,

you’re the man.

365 days

A poem.


It bites me, mocks me, 

The winter hits my heels as it runs to catch up with me 

But slow and steady wins the race,  

So I take it steady, 

I tell the winter that I love you, 

Nothing can keep me from you, not the cold. 


I watch as the flowers climb into to the clouds, 

I take refuge under a weeping willow, 

My book looks back at me, 

And my hair tries to dance with the wind, 

My eyes skim over the fruitless words on the page, 

Nothing keeps me more enrapt than my love for you. 


I see the birds start to sing as I walk towards you, 

You stare back at me,  

The heat hurts you, your tender skin, 

But the birds sing and nothing can distract me, 

Not even the starving conversation, 

From the love that I feel for you. 


Autumn is here, 

And it isn’t unwelcome, 

But it comes and it taunts me with bright colours- 

With others’ contentment when I feel so empty, 

But I keep on trying, 

Because nothing keeps me moving forward like my love for you. 


It’s winter again, 

And I look into your icy blue eyes, 

The fire burns with passion, 

But something feels off, 

Something hasn’t been right, 

I think all I thought this needed was my love for you.  




I’ve always been uncertain about myself.

It’s the wonder at life and what created us, and it’s the whispering question in the back of my mind constantly doubting if I’m good enough for our ‘creator’. And, if there is no creator, if I’m good enough.

It’s not diffidence, definitely not. It’s not even really anything like that I’m not shy, nor am I humble. It’s fear. People can smell fear from miles away. I’m just scared; I’m scared to admit or to acknowledge that I’m good and then have it all crumble into fragments before my mind, more than I could imagine even in the most developed fragments of my imagination.

It’s the nervousness- the nervousness that I’m not doing the right thing when I’m being loud or out there, and it’s nervousness that I’ll reach my acme, so much so that’ll never get there again, and it’s nervousness that people will think that I think I’m good at things, even if I do. I don’t acknowledge that anything that I do is good, because I don’t want it to be the best that I can ever achieve.

Alas, it is not that I’m diffident or that I would rather not shout my opinions from the rooftops. It is not even that I have no faith in myself.

I think it’s because I cannot stand to be mediocre that I am so afraid of failing. To me, failure is not the lack of evidence that you’ve done well, it is the lack of evidence that you’ve done the best. Sometimes this fear- this biting sensation of not being good enough-it gets me in a twist, and I over explain because I’m so scared that I’ll get it so wrong. I need to be the best; to be the best, you have to act like it.

Sure, I’m good. But, what if I’m not so good next time?

Silent Majority

This isn’t what you think it is.

The silent majority; a a metaphor, I imagine that this could be the things that your mind screams but neither your body nor your mouth says.

Deep inside I am deeply terrified, the fear is a flaking, dank wallpaper with an unforgiving, displeasing grip on the wall. But that is only in my mind. Outside, I am scarcely scared, decorated as if I’ve just been newly fixed, arranged together, in reverie with myself and my dreams.

If only. If I fail at this the one thing that I am good at, if I don’t do amazingly, then what am I, when can I have faith in myself? I am destined to be inconsistent. But that is only in my mind.

It will all be quiet in those stressful times, when we are all together in unpoken, and yet inconspicuous worry, because when we are scared we cannot talk, it is then that we cannot resist but to give in to the silent majority of humans, we are all guilty. Our mouth cannot speak the worry, but yet it cannot speak anything else, because we cannot fathom something without fault, without inducing anxiety in the pits of our stomachs. When we are all scared of falling, of the next steps, we will be unable to speak, because we cannot say it, and would we have anything else to say if it is all that we are thinking?

It is times like those, sat rigidly, when you reprimand with an air of severity to yourself- ‘I cannot show my weakness, for if I do not then how will they know that I am weak?’- it is then that we remain silent in the hospital waiting room, it is times like these that we show no signs of livelihood within ourselves. We play to our silent majority, we discover nothing but fear inside ourselves, and would not dare have anyone else do the same.

I am terrified of saying that I am good at something, and failing at the next hurdle, to have people mock me, to be disappointed, to see that I am imperfect.

But, what are fears if not irrational? Of course, they know that we are scared, they know that we are not perfect, they know that we would not dare to admit that we are good because we are too proud to exacerbate our next failure, but we dare not realise it.

This time it is our mind and our mouths which exhibit the silent majority, not daring to think that which others dare not say.