If you love my work, repost this poem,
help me get this bastard heard.
Not for ego, not for numbers,
just one broken person per word.
I never planned to be this loud,
I wrote to empty out my head.
Now strangers know my ugly bits
and sing the shit I never said.
It’s mad as fuck, I won’t lie,
it’s love, but it’s a lot.
My phone keeps flashing with messages,
while my brain says, “mate, please stop.”
I write about men who say they’re fine,
then stare through cups of tea.
The ones who fix the whole damn room
but can’t say, “help me.”
I write about grief with muddy boots,
not candles and soft songs.
The kind that sits beside your bed
and follows you all day long.
I write about brothers not coming home,
and questions with no end.
About missing someone so badly
you still go to text your friend.
I write about mums made out of steel,
Kestrel, love and fight.
The sort who’d scare the street to death,
then kiss your head goodnight.
I write about autism,
how it sees too much too fast.
How I can read a room in seconds
then need days to get it passed.
I write about ADHD,
that goblin with the keys.
One minute building empires,
next minute losing tea.
I write about trauma, properly,
not dressed up clean and nice.
The sort that has you laughing loud
then paying for it twice.
I write about Jack at stupid o’clock,
Mary Jane and tired feet.
Walking miles to shut my head up,
because my brain won’t fucking sleep.
Then I turn it into music,
give the poems a bit of bite.
Northern words with dirty hands,
still swinging through the night.
And people say it helps them,
which floors me every time.
Because these were just my broken notes,
now they’re keeping folk in line.
That was always the aim, though,
help one person, job done.
One bloke who nearly disappeared,
one mum, one mate, one son.
But if it grows, then let it grow,
let’s make the noise mean more.
Let’s raise awareness properly,
kick shame through its own door.
For men’s mental health,
for autism, ADHD.
For every head that’s wired different
and every chest that can’t breathe.
And I want to raise some money,
for the ones who stand and fight.
For the charities there at the edge
when someone can’t see night from right.
For the crews that search the water,
for the voices on the phone.
For the people holding strangers
when they feel completely alone.
So repost this if it hits you,
don’t just smile and scroll away.
One share might find the right poor sod
on the wrong kind of day.
I’m not polished, I’m not perfect,
I’m bent, blunt, bruised and loud.
But I’ll turn every fucked up chapter
into something that makes me proud.
So if you love my work, repost this poem,
help me drag this pain through town.
Because imperfect perfection
is still better than staying down.