I wait till the house is quiet,
that’s when I let myself crack.
No shouting, no scene,
just me with the mask pulled back.
On the sofa staring through nothing,
while the room throws old shit at me,
photos, poems, memories,
every mistake I can’t leave be.
Sometimes it’s bed, early hours,
when the world has fucked off to sleep,
wiping my face in the dark,
trying not to make a peep.
Diesel knows before I speak,
he pushes in and guards my side,
Eddie lays down on the floor,
like he knows I’ve nowhere to hide.
Then someone walks in, my phone lights up,
and I wipe the shame away,
hide the red, fix my voice,
performing Chris another day.
The Mask
I’m the joker, dad, strong one,
advice always on tap,
turning pain into music,
then falling apart after that.
I smile on lives, laugh with mates,
tell my kids I’m fine,
then sit alone with a racing head
chewing through my spine.
Lonely though I’m not alone,
lost in a life I don’t notice,
walking some path I can’t see,
with fuck all left in focus.
The Man I Hate
I used to bounce from hard times,
like rubber balls off walls,
now 1 more thing hits my chest
and the whole fucking tower falls.
It eats me alive, this weakness,
that I can’t shrug this shit off,
that I need someone to hold me,
but shove them away when they knock.
We’re told don’t cry, don’t need,
don’t break, don’t say you’re done,
be the rock, be the wall,
be the shelter for everyone.
So men say fine and mean nothing,
because crying on your own
feels safer than being seen weak.
The Old Me
Childhood started building it,
that kid who learnt survive,
then the old life gave me armour,
because soft got people broke.
Drugs, fights, chaos, wrong roads,
anger worn like skin,
it saved me when I needed it,
now I’m trapped inside the thing.
The old me shouts each morning,
from the cage I locked him in,
says let me steer again,
I’ll make this whole thing thin.
He says pain won’t touch us,
if I let him take control,
but I know what the bastard charges,
and he always wants my soul.
Still, I’m ashamed I want him,
ashamed I miss his bite,
ashamed I push people away
while praying someone holds me tight.
Who I Failed
I feel I failed my children,
and it guts me most,
they saw Dad keep storms outside,
then saw where I hide when I’m close.
5 and a half litres in 9 days,
Jack sat like a mate,
the same drink I moved them from,
now watching me lose shape.
I feel I failed my family,
after all that grief has done,
they’ve seen mental health take,
now they watch another one.
I failed the women
who gave more than I deserved,
and that sits behind my ribs
like every rotten word.
Laura got the long road,
the years, the house, the plans,
the jokes, the walls, the silence,
the weight in both her hands.
She watched me slipping slowly,
while I swore I had control,
I hid the ugly truth from her
and let it take its toll.
She parented pain,
that wasn’t hers,
while I hid in jokes
and broken words.
There should have been more honesty,
not wreckage, guilt and blame,
not love bent out of shape
by a mess I wouldn’t name.
Robyn got the crisis version,
the one already split in 2,
7 hours of silent phone line,
because she knew what I might do.
We had nights where we laughed,
for a bit it felt steady,
but I promised I was there
when I was nowhere near ready.
I was sat right there beside her,
still lost inside my head,
feeding hope with half a man
and leaving wounds instead.
Then tablets stole my breathing,
she stood between me and death,
even after I had left her,
she fought for my last breath.
I hate what I gave both of them,
the damage and the debt,
so now I keep love at distance,
scared I’ll poison what I get.
Ben
I feel I failed my brother,
and my mum where she lay,
I promised her I’d watch Ben,
then life dragged me away.
He said he didn’t come to me,
because he saw me breaking too,
and that sentence lives inside me
like a blade that won’t pull through.
Unmasking showed me who I am,
but didn’t hand me peace,
it stripped the paint off everything
then left me with the grief.
The Last Year
Grooming cracked my trust,
love cracked something more,
then losing Ben kicked through my chest
and left me on the floor.
No sleep, no food, bad thoughts,
burnout in my bones,
my heart blocking the meds I need
while I fight this by myself.
Why I’m Writing This
I write because face to face
the words get stuck in me,
but on the page they crawl out
ugly, scared and free.
This is not me begging pity,
or dressing hurt as art,
it’s a strong man admitting
he’s been breaking from the start.
I turn pain into songs now,
because another man might hear it
before he climbs inside his grave.
My children keep me standing,
my family pulls me through,
Diesel and Eddie need me,
Ben still needs me too.
Stubbornness keeps me moving,
responsibility too,
stopping feels much harder
than dragging feet through hell.
So this is me without the mask,
no proud roar, no comeback speech,
just a man who breaks in silence
where nobody else can reach.