I don’t usually write when the JD gets loud,
when Mary Jane sits with me
and the smoke hangs like a crowd.
Most nights it’s just a line,
a verse,
some thought half alive,
then I wake up feeling rough
with truth stuck behind my eyes.
But this one came up ugly,
from deep under the glass,
from the boy I buried years ago
still kicking at the past.
It came from every bruise,
every door, every rule,
from learning as a kid
that soft hearts get used by fools.
I wear the armour well,
that street bred, hard faced grin.
Crack a joke, look unfazed,
keep the real shit tucked in.
People see the shoulders,
the gob,
the stare,
the fight,
but they don’t see the nights
where I’m scared of my own mind.
Yeah, I’m a hard cunt,
I won’t dress it up for tea.
I’ll go toe to toe with a man
or three if needs be.
I’ve been hit, dropped, split,
sent sideways by life,
then got back up bleeding
because that’s what does a Wright.
I ain’t the hardest man walking,
that’s pub talk and pride,
but I’ve got a stubborn bastard
that refuses to die.
Knock me down,
I’ll spit red and stand,
because staying on the floor
never suited this man.
But here’s the bit I don’t brag about,
not sober, not loud.
The thing that scares me most
ain’t any man in a crowd.
It’s the one inside the cage,
fists wrapped round the bars,
eyes dead as old winters,
laughing at my scars.
I love that man.
I fucking do.
He saved me.
When life came in swinging,
he stood where I couldn’t be.
When I was a kid with fear
pressed flat in my chest,
he took the hits, swallowed the screams,
and dealt with the rest.
He came from kitchens too quiet,
from doors kicked in my head,
from sitting still for hours
while childhood quietly bled.
He came from hunger,
from shame,
from being made to feel small,
then deciding one day
he’d never feel small at all.
He gave me backbone.
He gave me teeth.
He taught me how to survive
when love had fists underneath.
He turned pain into armour,
turned terror into nerve,
and if the world wanted a monster,
he said, fine, you can learn.
But he’s not safe now.
That’s the truth in the smoke.
He’s old school morals
with a noose round his throat.
He don’t care for prison,
or feelings,
or tears.
He’s from a violent life
I’ve spent running from for years.
He’d protect me, yeah,
but he’d burn the street too.
Call it justice,
then ask what else I expected him to do.
He’s loyal, ruthless,
broken and brave,
but I can’t let him lead
just because he once kept me safe.
Past me built him.
Present me holds the key.
Future me stands there asking
what kind of man I’ll be.
Am I the rage in my blood,
or the dad that broke the chain?
Am I the bottle in my hand,
or the hand that feels the pain?
Because I’ve got kids who made it,
three decent humans from my mess.
My eldest in uniform,
the others building what comes next.
That’s not luck,
that’s graft,
that’s me refusing the curse,
raising them with love
while my own head got worse.
I’ve carried grief like a weapon,
wrote eulogies with a cracked voice,
held people up for years
like breaking wasn’t a choice.
I’ve smiled through burnout,
through no sleep,
through my brain on fire,
said I’m fine, mate,
while the truth called me a liar.
So tonight the JD’s burning,
Mary Jane’s sat near,
and the room feels like a confessional
with no priest to hear.
Just me, the smoke,
the bottle,
and the cage in my chest,
where the old me waits quiet
like he’s not finished yet.
He says, let me out, Chris.
We know how this goes.
No more talking,
no more feeling,
just fists, fear and control.
And for one fucked second,
I miss how simple that sounds,
because pain feels easier
when you just put it in the ground.
But I know better now.
Even pissed, I know.
You don’t heal from hell
by becoming one more show.
You don’t beat the past
by wearing its face,
and you don’t protect your future
by letting old rage take its place.
So I’ll thank that animal
for every war he braved,
for keeping me breathing
when nobody came to save.
I’ll put my hand on the bars
and tell him, I know, mate,
but love ain’t always freedom,
sometimes love is the cage.
Then I’ll sip this JD,
let the smoke slow the noise,
write from the man,
the monster,
and the broken little boy.
Past, present, future,
all sat in one frame,
one bottom of a bottle,
one ruthless family name.
And when the night gets heavy
and the lock starts feeling weak,
I’ll stand there half cut
with blood behind my teeth.
I’ll keep him fed with respect,
but I won’t let him be brave,
because the strongest thing I’ll do tonight
is keep that bastard caged.