Poetry My Arse
Poetry my arse.
What good are words
against test results
against waiting
against nights so long.
They forget morning exists?
Words don’t cure.
They don’t rescue.
They just sit beside you
and won’t bugger off
when things get dark.
So yeah, poetry my arse…
but pass me the pen.
Read other poems
A selection of poems written across different moments and cycles.
Some brief. Some unfolding slowly.
Each one given its own space.
