My Little Lion


He pounces, falling

through piles of books,

pages flying upwards,

scurries amongst  fibres

of bedroom carpet

on padded paws,

pieced together with silk,

to slink about unnoticed,

in the jungle we share.




You need not hear me, so I

hammered my temper into your palms,

pressed my nails into your skin,

I will not be ignored.


You did not hear me, so I

began breaking ribcages, shattering

the struts that held us together,

I demand only your attention.

I will not be ignored.


Portrait of The Young Poet in Front of the Swing set, Age 6, Northampton



I hold you

between my fingertips, careful

not to sweat

onto your smile

wider than the rings

Saturn proposed to the sky with.


You do not

blink back at me,

your inky eyes crafted

like the ocean, they

refuse to ripple

when I drop pennies

in exchange for wishes.


Your hair parted

like Moses’ water,

rip curls singing

of pebbled beaches, of

comb teeth long lost,

in the matted debris

of golden locks.


Crimson uniform bundled

over youthful bones,

enveloped across rosy skin,

you wear it

like a laurel,

crowning your feathered hair.


You bolt forward,

fuelled by the

power of Zeus

beneath your sandaled feet,

to eat chicken pie, made by

ma. Food of the Gods.


Photo that Portrait of the Young Poet in Front of the Swing set, Age 6, Northampton is based upon

The Red Bricked House


You are the red brick house my memories are built upon,

the foundations of my wooden spine,

the pillars that bare my strength.

I only need to force my eyes shut to see that house,

bold, fierce, strong,

solid and intangible in it’s existence,

refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer,

against the winds that vowed to destroy you,

the ‘no’s’ that are now embellished into my wood work and window panes,

that I replicated,

to the best of my ability,

to recreate the house I admired,

painting the celling with dedicated accuracy,

so that you would see my imitation

as my most sincere form of flattery.

Whilst my house stands with its back to the destruction,

your house stands in the face of fear,

not for a second cowering,

worn down by disastrous storms,

pulled apart by the prying fingers of time.

The red bricked house still stands as beautiful as I remember,

If only I close my eyes first.


(I wrote this poem with my Nana in mind- comments/likes/etc always appreciated) 🙂




To The Eight Year Old Girl I Used To Be

I’m sorry

I wish I could make you understand

the reasons behind the decisions I regret,

to steer you away from pain you’ll create,

pointless fights you’ll never win.

I know you’ll stand there as I yell,

stuck in the headlights whilst you search for the answer

that even now I’m yet to find.

You will see your parents destroying themselves,

make Brownie promises to yourself

in the light of a torch under your duvet,

when you should have been sleeping.

You’ll promise not to travel down the same road they did,

not to become the walking dead.

Adolescence will hit you.

Shattering those precious promises,

tearing yourself in two,

silencing your tears by drowning your inner voice with alcohol,

that voice that never knew how to swim.

You will fill your mouth with smoke,

so you don’t have to speak anymore,

Besides, clouded lungs will be the least of your worries.

Soon, you’ll see why killing yourself from the inside out,

is favourable over heaving heavy lungs.

I tried to become someone you would be proud of,

but, the demons I fought were too strong,

so I did the best I could,

I wore the armour my parents handed down to me,

chainmail weaving its way across my torso,

stainless steel panels layering themselves across my limbs,

embellished with their drinking problems and smoking habits,

protecting me from what I feared the most.

I hope you don’t think any less of me, child.

And when the time comes that you need to wear that armour too,

I will be ready,

to hand it down to you.