Let me tell you,
how I have loved and I have loved
and I have been loved
and I have not been loved
and, ****, do I know what heartbreak feels like.

Let me tell you,
how it scares me how my legs
are stronger than my heart.
I am so tired from running from him,
so I stand and take it now.

My blood no longer tastes of him,
but my coffee does,
so I let it go cold. Cold.

I let the ice seep in as a reminder
as to what he used to keep away.

Let me tell you,
how I've learnt to fly with fractured wings.
Fear me.
Run.

Dean Eastmond.

I whisper poison to myself in ways only poets can,
wondering why you never asked me for the antidote.
Sat in the middle of my warzone, decomposing symphonies
formed in your ears when my poetry held you tighter than I could.
It is better to recognise your blood stains for what they are.
I blame myself. I blame myself. I blame myself.

I blame myself, when you still arrive unannounced at my door
with ****** knees and elbows. Shirt sleeves and split jeans.
Again, I have another hole to make whole again.
To stitch up your stars into rearranged constellations
that match the traced freckles on your back,
that do not form to spell my name,
that aren't metaphors; but the truth.

Dean Eastmond.

you feel disgusted with yourself
but in the eyes of the concrete
you are viewed as wholly reborn
there is an uncomfortable beauty
in every shape of the pain you feel
and it's all you've known, you see
barbed-wire for that safety net
a heavy head filled near the brim

but a soul exists within that form
separate of the tormented skin
the scratching & clawing within
there is an eternal essence of all
being, there is flawed divinity in you
one must stop and really breathe it

you've survived your mind, brother
of mine, and that alone is no small
feat, there's fear all around and it's
always drawing near, but you can
continue onward, you can still live.
at the end of it all, when you return
to the universe, you can at least
have with you in those final moments,
complete unity and understanding.
you can view the grand precipice of
your being with full awareness,
and that is yours. you take that with
you as you cross over, into eternity

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

a low, low lonely boy
sitting at a desk, vices
laid out before him.
there are whispers from
the other room, he can
hear them but cannot
make out what they are
saying. the tones are
disapproving, however,
so one could assume the
worst. one is usually inclined
to only assume the worst.

pants around the ankles, heart
beat slowing from a near sprint
and the illusion of desire now
shattering and raining on the
***** carpet around. the choked
sunlight, what's left of it, collapses
among the shards of fantasy.

a tray of chocolate covered almonds
which was filled with eager hands,
intent on gorging, sits half eaten before
the dim light of the screen
those same eager hands choked the
innocence of the day, slowly,
and those same guilty hands now
hold the face of that lonely boy.

you bound me in despair
to your will and body bare

I decided that's all that
happiness was

the choir is singing hallelujah, now.
my best isn't much but there's sweat on my brow. everything went wrong, everything goes wrong.

I'm in an irrational routine with these things. I write and sing and drive and act out of turn.
but there's something right about now

I like the sleepless nights
I feel free and alive
It's sweeter than bright
brighter than sweet

I feel I have a purpose
I feel in control of those
Opposing forces
the one guiding the wheel
the one gripping the pen,
covered in ink and dirt

I embrace it with whatever
parts of me I can muster

I become a different person

but this nirvana will end soon
there are other people I am
required to be at times, and
that time is now upon me

it all could be so easy and
I think it's becoming easier