I never wrote this for claps,
or praise from a crowd,
I wrote because my head gets loud,
and the thoughts won’t quiet down.
Sometimes it’s pen and paper,
sometimes notes in my phone,
just me at stupid o’clock
trying not to feel alone.
The noise starts kicking,
then it runs like mad,
grief, rage, guilt,
and the childhood I had.
So I drag it all out,
before it chews through my chest,
write a few raw lines
and hope my brain gives me rest.
Every word is honest,
even when it sounds rough,
it’s my life on the page,
not some polished up stuff.
It’s what I’ve been through,
what I’m still crawling in,
the fights nobody saw,
the ones under my skin.
Then somehow the words grew legs,
and walked out my door,
now strangers are feeling
what I wrote on my floor.
And I won’t lie, it’s fucked me,
in a beautiful way,
because people keep messaging
with things I can’t say.
They tell me it helped them,
they say it hit deep,
while I’m sat there overwhelmed,
barely getting sleep.
It warms my heart,
then it twists up my head,
because love can feel heavy
when you’re already half dead.
I’m grateful, I mean that,
but scared of it too,
because when people see my pain,
I don’t know what to do.
These poems were mine,
just a mess I could hold,
now they’re out in the world
with my wounds getting told.
And yeah, I’ll admit it,
I’m a poet, not a singer,
I don’t stand there with a mic
like some chart chasing winger.
But I’ve spent hours fettling,
tweaking the sound,
building something different
from the shit I had found.
Indie in the bones,
Britpop in the rain,
alternative British rap
dragging truth through the pain.
So don’t think the music
has no part of me in,
I shaped it round my words,
round the scars on my skin.
The voice might not be mine,
but the heartbeat is true,
the words are all mine,
and the feeling is too.
I didn’t fake a single line,
didn’t dress pain up neat,
I just gave it a rhythm
and let it walk the street.
Maybe that’s why it lands,
why it gets under skin,
because people hear my cracks
and recognise theirs within.
And that scares me, honestly,
more than I’ll admit,
because what if this blows up
and my brain can’t handle it?
This AuDHD head of mine
don’t do calm for long,
it either builds a world
or burns the bastard wrong.
One minute I’m buzzing,
thinking this might mean more,
next I’m anxious as fuck,
staring holes in the floor.
Because I never wanted fame,
or people saying my name,
I just wanted one person
to feel less alone in their pain.
And that job’s done now,
so anything else feels strange,
like life took my coping
and threw it on a stage.
Someone even told me
my words are going on skin,
a tattoo from my madness,
from the battles I’m in.
And I sat there quiet,
not knowing what to say,
because part of me felt honoured,
and part wanted to run away.
That’s a piece of my chest
on somebody’s arm,
a bit of my chaos
being kept safe from harm.
How the fuck do you hold that,
when you don’t feel worth love?
When you’re used to being strong,
not someone people speak of?
I appreciate every message,
every share, every play,
but some days I feel like fraud
for surviving this way.
Because all I’ve really done
is bleed where folk can see,
turned pain into words
and called the bastard poetry.
I’m not special,
I’m not some wise man with a throne,
I’m just a hard faced bloke
who got sick of hurting alone.
A bloke who laughs loud,
swears too much,
acts fine,
then writes at 4am
when the cracks split the spine.
A bloke who’s stood tall
with fists, pride and rage,
then cried into silence
and threw it on a page.
And if that helps someone,
then I’ll carry the fright,
I’ll keep dragging truth out
from the middle of the night.
Because maybe that’s the point,
maybe that’s all I can do,
show the broken ones hiding
that I’m hiding there too.
Show the lads who say nothing,
who swallow the ache,
that even hard men crumble,
bend, buckle and break.
We’re not made of concrete,
we’re not built without bone,
we feel every fucking thing.
We just learned to bleed alone.