Forbidden Fruit

See that fruit hanging ripe on that tree,
Flame red, glowing like a ruby,
I say its meant for me, I hear it calling to me.
Who says it’s forbidden,
Who says I shouldn’t try,
who says it’s juicy pleasure I should deny?
If curiosity is a crime, then I’m guilty.
for I want to touch,
taste something real,
not live in ignorant bliss,
no need for the serpents hiss,
I wish to explore, know more,
delve in,
let curiosity be my original sin.


File:Lucas Cranach the Elder-Adam and Eve 1533.jpg


I’m imperfect,
But that’s ok,
I don’t think the same way,
Football wasn’t a game I could play
This skinny lad with 4 eyes never really fitted in,
I preferred the book,
Preferred to express myself through colour, through the brush and pen.
I preferred to be strange,
Sticking out like a sore thumb,
Better than being ‘normal’, humdrum,
What is normal, what is perfect?
What is it to truly fit in anyway?
I’m imperfect,
But really, that’s ok.

Unemployed- poem

Here is a poem I wrote last week at a workshop ran by the very talented poet Dean Atta, called ‘Unemployment’ about experiences shared by many at present.


It’s like waiting for a bus to come,

waiting, waiting, but they never come.

You feel like a book yearning to be read but constantly being passed by.

“Sorry, not today,

Not enough experience” they say,

That’s when they even grace you with a reply,

Sending off a neverending trail of letters,

applications, cv’s, no satisfaction.

Treading water, constantly swaying, staying still.

It’s like you’re looked down on by society,

No compassion, no pity, the centre of lies,

You’re despised.

Being unemployed is a heavy yoke while waiting for a lighter one to come.