2am Monday morning,
smashed and half folded,
eyes like piss holes,
brain overloaded.
About to hit bed,
but I don’t feel like me,
like my head’s left the room
and my body’s still drinking tea.
Well, not tea.
JD, obviously.
Because apparently my coping skills
were built by a drunk committee.
This was rushed,
proper thrown at the screen,
thumbs moving faster
than the thoughts in between.
No neat little poem,
no polished up shit,
just me at stupid o’clock
trying to breathe through it.
The room’s gone quiet,
but my head’s still loud,
same old circus,
different pissed clown.
And let’s say this clear,
no matter what, I’m here to stay,
still breathing, still writing,
still dragging myself through the day.
Still cracking jokes
when I probably should cry,
still saying I’m sound
with a face full of lie.
But the words don’t lie.
That’s the difference with me.
I’ll say the ugly bit out loud
while others hide it for tea.
So for the stalkers
watching my TikTok at night,
pulling faces in silence
like that makes them right,
I don’t lie.
Not for views, not for praise,
not for clout, not for pity,
not for anyone’s gaze.
Do with that what you want,
twist it, screenshot it, talk,
I’ve had worse from life
than some sad little walk.
And if some prick from Leeds
wants to act like he’s hard,
or some gobshite from Hull
wants to play that card,
you know my address,
you know where I stay,
I’m not chasing shadows,
I’ve got bills anyway.
But don’t mistake calm
for me being weak,
I’ve just learned there’s power
in letting fools speak.
Because the demon I caged
didn’t die in that room,
he just sits there quiet
with his hands on the broom.
He has coffee with me
when the daylight crawls in,
nods at my pain
with a dirty little grin.
He knows all my history,
all the shit I survived,
all the times I went missing
but somehow stayed alive.
Then night comes round,
and JD gets poured,
and that demon slides over
like, “go on then, I’m bored.”
He gets pissed under the table
like he’s paid to be there,
laughing at trauma
while I stare into air.
He says, “You’re still here, lad,”
and I hate that he’s right,
because even my worst bits
still drag me through night.
I’m not proud of the bottle.
I’m not dressing it nice.
I know it’s a shit way
to try and roll dice.
But when the head starts barking
and sleep won’t appear,
I reach for the silence
that burns going near.
So yeah, 2am Monday,
smashed, messy, wired,
not feeling myself,
just pissed off and tired.
But I’m here.
Still blunt.
Still built out of spite.
Still writing my truth
while the world talks shite.
And if you came here stalking,
expecting me to fold,
you’ve backed the wrong bastard,
I was raised in the cold.