spoken word

Toxic man

Lately, things that annoy me include: beer and lads and birds and banter.
Because whenever they’re linked to toxic man.
They just lead me to certain anger.
Like Professor Banner getting cursed by gamma.
Cos toxic man is a backstabber.
Who just grins as he turns his dagger.
And I’m fast learning I can’t hurt this gangster.
He’s untouchable, a myth.
This is me versus Santa.
So when I face this street fighter, it might be electric.
But all I’m doing is getting burnt by Blanka til I turn and scamper.
Shell-shocked, like Thor.
Knowing maybe I didn’t earn the hammer.
Cos how do I call out guys I know, when their ‘friendly’ comments are so passive aggressive?
Alpha male 101.
Classic defensive and lacking perspective.
Cos when it comes to bonding with other men, these lads are in the dark ages.
Real feelings hidden, raiding each other’s houses like masked bailiffs.
Treating their peers so poorly that they surpass shameless.
Never facing the darkest parts of themselves.
At best, they grasp basics.
And endlessly toy with people’s emotions.
Then swan off like they’ve passed blameless.
Taking their lead from the piss-take patriarchy.
People like Trump, the psychopathic statesman.
Or narcissistic assholes like Patrick Bateman.
Those that think that one good deed is a massive statement.
But, hold up.
I’m wailing on these guys like I’m better than them.
Which has me under the weather again.
As this vendetta brings its own pressure.
And really, I’d rather just settle for zen.
But I’m bull-headed.
My mind at war like a minotaur.
Cos now, it seems, I’ve gotta wrestle a friend.
With fire and brimstone, til my rebel ascends.
To then face off with the devil again.
Til one of us meets with a terrible end.
Cos how can I call myself feminist, if I’m only slightly better than the guys I accuse?
If feminism needs allies, do I have a right to refuse?
Can I live with myself if I find an excuse?
Maybe I should be less try-hard and more die-hard.
And just say yippee ki yay before lighting a fuse.
I mean, at that point, what would I lose?
It’s hardly like these toxic guys were good friends in the first place.
Those that remember my birthday.
Not that that’s enough.
Cos I need connection on a deeper level.
Vulnerability with another man because we need this peril.
Til we grow and know how we can be this special.
Cos we’re cracking open new emotions.
Which, whilst thrilling, mean our knees now tremble.
Cos it’s tough stuff.
But doesn’t leave us with a weakened temple.
Nah, this is training day and I lead the way.
This is me and Denzel.
So let’s keep it central.
Cos modern masculinity doesn’t need to be this stressful.
I mean, I could sketch out how we fix man, I just need a pencil.
And I get I’m rambling, and that this whole scheme is mental.
And maybe the impression I gave, was that I seemed all gentle.
But in actual fact, I’m ready to crack toxic heads til I get lost instead.
Cos certain men are a cancer.
And it’s high time that we stopped this spread.

A diamond that hits back

I’m hardly past it.
(Mid-30s if you’re wondering.)
And in recent years, have kinda felt like I hate this game.
Cos life plus time is evil.
And seems to equal more aches and pains.
And it’s a sad fact and makes me mad that, whatever I do, I can’t escape this change.
It’s like my inner sadist stands back and toasts my decline, all gross and divine.
Grinning as he tastes champagne.
All the while, I just chase insane.
And weather this draught as I pray for rain.
A sad commuter.
Left on the platform cos I lack form.
No longer able to chase this train.
Cos it’s gone, and is now steaming ahead.
So whilst I’m calm on the surface.
Really I’m nervous, like I’m feeling a threat.
Maybe I can rebuild, you know?
Stitch together with needle and thread.
And plug wounds so I stop bleeding all red.
Cos I can’t muddle along.
I’ve gotta get ahead of the reaper.
My thoughts ice cold.
Like I’ve got my head in a freezer.
With vessels that beat temples.
Like a high temperature fever.
Perhaps I’m not old yet.
But my brow is just cold sweat.
Like I’ve got unsettling features.
And I’m feeling an ill chill, like Kiddo in Kill Bill.
Thinking, why is no one checking the heater?
But I digress.
I wish I could calm my mind, you know?
Just spark up a reefer and drift off in the ether.
Then talk riddles like Gollum, cos I’m an odd little creature.
But in tough times I seek stress and ignore weak legs.
Cos there’s no stopping this cheetah.
I mean, I’ll chase anxious thoughts like precious prey.
And think each one’s a keeper.
I know that it’s better to let ’em pass by and be more zen.
Maybe switch my lifestyle and rock vegan.
Then I can watch the sky for enemies like I fly serenity.
Just call me Joss Whedon.
Cos I’ll slay my monsters like Buffy.
Just trust me, when I say I’m clocking these lost demons.
So if they attack, I’ll strike back with a spiked bat.
And crush pretenders like I’m the boss, Negan.
But wonder, have I trapped myself in this setup?
Is this the price I pay?
Is this the cost of freedom?
Cos when I break for a minute I think, should I stop this feeling?
Because despite my fight, my boat’s full of holes and I’m bailing fast.
I know I’m awkward with help.
I kinda hate to ask.
Maybe I can find solace in making art?
Or playing darts?
Yeah, well… scratch that.
I spend too much time indoors as it is.
Gotta get out… see the world with my backpack.
Not make excuses, where all I do is just backtrack.
Cos honestly, there’s more to life than god damn Facebook and snapchat.
So if I’m not the pilot of my destiny, then I should just give my cap back.
Otherwise, life will be one big ‘remember the time when I almost..’
And just play out in flashback.
So do I stick or twist?
Or double down like in Blackjack?
Find Wonderland, London Below and the Upside Down.
The place where the gaps at.
Where weirdos are welcome and it’s all a bit abstract.That makes sense.
I could probably back that.
There I’d be less nervous.
I’d have purpose.
It’d stop my mind getting ransacked.
So when emotional bombs drop I don’t have to hide from the impact.
I’ll be left silent and intact.
Growing in stature with every step.
A beast amongst petty people, like a giant that’s mismatched.
Then all I have to do is find the life I want is grab hold, and tighten til it snaps.
Which, even if it hurts, and I find I get whiplash.
I’ll know I’m unbreakable.
That, finally, I’m a diamond that hits back.

A letter to my inner narcissist

PART ONE: AN INTERVENTION
Words are words.
And sometimes, words hurt.
Like a simple thing said in a simple way can cut deeper than a curse word.
So if you think I can kill you with a turn of phrase.
Just know that I’m holding back a worse verse.
From beginning to middle to end, it’ll get tougher and tougher.
Till you’re wishing for that comfort of my first third.
Like a drunk the morning after.
Wondering how it all kicked off.
What was it you first slurred?
You sly spy, thinking you’re James Bond but your game’s gone.
And now you’re proper shaken and not stirred.
God’s gift giving women short shrift.
Telling mates, ‘Let’s go chat up these hot birds.’
But they see through you.
Cos you’re vain, narcissistic and self-obsessed.
Maybe you should give your old self a rest?
And form a new body.
One that’s nicer to people.
Instead you seem to have decided you’re evil.
Thinking you’re above the masses.
That your lies are so regal.
The slick venom you spit so thick.
It’s like you’re hiding in treacle.
Employing fantastic dirty tactics.
Cos it’s abundantly clear that you just can’t fight legal.

PART TWO: THE FIGHT BACK
So now, Mr Narcissist, the gloves are off.
And I won’t be hitting a wall soon.
Cos it’s a full moon.
And I’m coming at you with the Hounds of God.
Hunting you down round the clock.
So just when you start to get complacent and think I’m about to stop.
I’ll bring insane pain.
Like Jet Li on a jet-ski.
And go for your throat with a resounding chop.
Have you choke on your words till your tongue burns.
Like you couldn’t taste chilli but now it’s hot.
Cos I’m iron born and fire formed.
I’ll pray as I throw you to the waves and drown this God.
You’ll be pissed, screaming at mist.
Seeing ghosts all around you in this howling fog.
Cos I’m building walls in my psyche.
Watch me mount these blocks.
So with each brick in place I’ll put you in a sicker state.
Square peg in a round hole.
I know you won’t fit this shape.
Balling up your emotions in a fist of hate.
But I kinda know you want to change.
So my help in this matter is probably a gift you’ll take.
Cos when you’re nice to people, they’re nice back.
This is no twist of fate.
So go ahead, look at me blank.
Like what I’m saying just won’t translate.
But if you don’t evolve you’ll just stay cold.
And from this, Mr Narcissist, there’s no escape.

The misogynist rapper

I got my money and my bitches and my guns, in the club.
Repping like a G.
Then I spark up a blunt.
But I don’t smoke.
So I choke up my lungs.
Then set off all the fire alarms.
Damn, I’m a mug.
But, I’m hella-strong never wrong baby.
Black fire you liar I’m never this lazy.
I give you a taste, we race to the finish.
I wrote this lyrics in under a minute.
Just so you know that I’m in it to win it.
Cos the highlight of my day.
Is when I wank and cry.
And praise Jesus for my penis.
And be thankful I’m high.
Cos when I act big.
And say I’m gangster, I lie.
Cos with pussy, think Virgin.
But no planes in the sky.
Because woman you see, they really do scare me.
Venomous feminists that are so hairy.
All body shapes, in sizes that vary.
So I act like the don.
Cos I’m taking their cherry.
But, what you think I’m compensatin’ for?
I only see these women as babes or whores.
Man, I’m setting back equality and closing doors.
Cos this is all a game and I’m just keeping score.
And the dumber I get.
Fans be lapping it up.
Simply as shit lyrics.
Like I take that pussy and hit it.
And they can’t get enough.
I had dreams, man.
To be a credible rapper.
Now I’m plagued every day by terrible laughter.
From others in the game who know I’m cancer to the scene.
They react with anger.
Cos I’m gangster (in my dreams).
Actually, I’m more a misogynist role model with no morals as I pander to these teens.
And if rap soon dies.
I’ll know I had a hand in its defeat.
Cos I’m a parasite watching others fight.
While there’s quicksand around my feet.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m just damned beyond belief?

Note: this piece was written half to a beat and aimed squarely at certain modern rappers who think they’re God’s gift to women and treat – and rap about – them terribly. And to the nonsensical, simplistic style of rap they use that’s truly awful and has barely any skill or nuance to it. The words above are from the point of view of the character in terms of him mostly showboating, but letting cracks of what he’s really thinking show through at times.

Sunday daze

This morning I glued a bit of the wood floor that kept coming up.
Then got a little tool with teeth to remove old grouting in the bathroom.
Then hoovered.
And washed the dishes.
Then cleaned my boots, still muddy from that last mini festival I went to; where I threw axes and cracked whips.
Then changed the bedding.
Confession: I got distracted a few times watching stuff on YouTube.
(Mostly rap battles and comedy.)
I then polished various things in the lounge.
Including a glitterball viking helmet my girlfriend made for parties.
Then I washed some clothes.
Seriously, where does all this washing come from?
Later on I had a beer. Camden Hells.
It went down well.
I was meant to see a friend this evening, but with all this hard adulting.
My Sunday had become chores galore.
And my energy was kinda tapped out.
Still, as far as Sundays go, I felt I achieved a few things.
Go me.

Smiting my enemies

Lately, something’s been on my mind.
And might need some kind of remedy.
What I want to know is…
How does one smite an enemy?
I mean, even if I had the cojones.
Just getting in a fight is a felony.
It’s like one slap and I’m in a scrap.
Fists flailing like they’re righteous extremities.
And my blows are landing like third time’s a charm.
My mind calm.
Thinking, this is my kind of therapy.
But projectiles from hell are what help me get high and excel.
They’re the right type of devilry and what pique my interest when I subscribe to a specialty.
I mean, take battle.
There’s something beautifully simple about lobbing an axe.
It’s a natural high.
Like a DJ building the crowd and then dropping a track.
Or a detective cracking a case by just following facts.
Picture the scene.
The wooden handle starts in my palm.
I flex my arm and test the weight of the blade.
Raise it high before I let it fly.
My greatness displayed.
Weaponry ready I’m brave and won’t face demons afraid.
Cos I’ve faith in my ability.
My commitment stone cold on my goal as I displace all other imagery.
Ready to do you damage with this surprise package like you’re late for a delivery.
Cos my aim is leftfield and unorthodox.
It’ll bring you to heel and give you cause to stop.
Have you thinking that, the way I throw a tomahawk… is not a sport.
But by then, chances are you’ve been stopped and caught.
Shell-shocked and left with no last resort.
Disorientated, like you’re blinded by lens flare.
A rabbit in the headlights.
Frustrated, cos all you find are my crosshairs.
So you put on a front like you’re honestly not scared.
But whatever the situation my aim is true.
Cos I’m hungry for the kill and in a tasty mood.
You with nowhere to hide, as I push others aside.
And come at you full throttle, racing through.
So run if you want.
But my first thought will be I gotta chase this dude.
Cos one way or another you’re getting the axe.
Chest or head, you’re dead.
But you were expecting this fact.
Maybe you’ll survive and go feral.
Off grid and regretting our scrap.
And evade me for a time, as you’re an expert with maps.
So yeah, for this alone I will give you credit.
But you’re just killing time.
It’s all academic.
Cos our next encounter will be more poetic.
And less generic.
So prepare yourself.
Maybe go fetch a medic.
Cos my axe is pure lethal like Thor’s hammer.
It’ll have you tongue-tied when I let fly.
Shaking like you’ve gone and developed a forced stammer.
Your feet will freeze and lack traction.
Like an Anglo-Saxon, who first sees ships flying a Norse banner.
Then you’ll kick into gear.
But fight or flight fear will give you cause to scatter.
And run for the hills in thoughtless anger.
Cos know that I’m an elf with these weapons and I’ve brought the glamour.
And won’t desist, until I see your reality twist like Jacob’s Ladder.
So watch out when I’m armed with tools.
Or get a nasty fall cos I’m lord of the manor.
I mean, anything you try will fail.
It won’t even matter.
So go ahead.
Brandish a dagger.
Show me your swagger.
Do what you want.
I know you’re cheap glass and will breach fast.
One hit, and I bet you’ll shatter.

Nerds never say die

I recently read a book called Ready Player One that’ll soon be a movie.
Which got me thinking how growing up nerd was absurd.
So yeah, go ahead, shoot me.
Cos I get it.
Everyone’s obsessed with the 80s.
Which I confess, is so crazy.
As when we look back, we just remember the gravy.
Nostalgia goggles set to rose-tinted and hazy.
But it is what it is.
So let’s begin.
Now I could lie and say this begins in a violent and bloody way with our hero of the silver screen, Lucky Day.
Stealing scenes in Little Neddy Goes to War.
As telling you this, My Little Buttercup, would help settle a score.
But it’s not really true.
So I should start with when you and I got robbed.
By that bastard El Guapo.
Cos he wanted us to die like dogs.
But I confused him with moves more sly like fox.
And could define the word plethora.
(But I’ll keep that under my fedora.)
Next thing, I’d been smacked on my Dusty Bottoms.
And sent Back to the Future for being a loser.
Left in a flux, with no capacitor to be a true challenger to the powers that be.
Seduced by Delirium.
Fearing the Sandman had devoured my dreams.
Leaving behind his punk rock sister.
Till it was all I could do not to cower and scream.
But, somehow, she took pity.
And I found a reprieve.
So yeah, my life, until recently, has not been much fun.
I mean, everyone’s so serious.
Forever telling me that there can be only one.
But am I really deserving?
Lately, I’ve been fearing the Kurgen and when he’s returning.
As he’s the most devious type of vicious baddie.
Incidentally, shout out the mighty Mr Miyagi.
The way he taught me to treat my enemies was a gift and so savvy and kind of uncanny.
I remember how he and I would have a laugh in that amusement park.
Scaring the crap out of Scooby and Shaggy.
But to step back for a sec.
For most of my youth, I’d keep my mask in place.
Praying for an intervention at detention.
Because, in principle, I was a basket case.
But also a brain, an athlete, and a criminal.
So my teens were pivotal and perhaps my pinnacle.
Cos it meant so much to be part of that club.
A group where I could express and be free.
Which leads me to say, please… Don’t You (forget about me).
But remember when Jake and I ate cake when I was sweet sixteen.
Or when science helped me create a woman from my wildest dreams.
Or that time I gave jewellery to Hoggle cos he liked its gleam.
Forgotten that?
You know… it’s when we hung with Ludo and got our rocks off.
Before playing ‘let the wookie win’ got me stranded on that Starship Destroyer.
Oddly, dressed as Inigo Montoya.
Which resulted in a fight with the man in black.
Telling him, with conviction, that I’ll be back.
Cos his boss, the Emporer, had killed my father and should prepare to die.
Which didn’t have the effect I had come to expect.
Cos I’m a T-800.
I don’t have the flair to lie.
Even though I’m the scary type.
But bad things do happen when I embrace my machismo.
Think food after midnight, a glass of water, and a face-off with Gizmo.
But as you’d expect.
The point came when I started getting too old for this shit.
I’m a family man.
Fair cop, I’m good at my job.
But I can’t be bolder than Riggs.
He’s a mad man, with dark undertones.
I should have known something was up when he invited me to his vast thunderdome.
But anyway.
Maybe I’m better off freezing enemies in carbonite.
But if their force is strong.
There’s only really a half chance they’ll die.
Simpler to knock ’em out and toss ’em to the sarlacc.
See how far they fly.
Yet the obvious solution for a nerf herder like me, always seems to be the last to try.
So I tend to end up surrounded by bad guys.
Which gets me all pent up.
Makes me want to rip off my shirt.
Phone box style, like Clarke Kent does.
But yeah, there’s bad guys.
And then there’s me, a joker with my rifle and my gun.
Ready for fighting and ready for fun.
Cos I’m a ticking time bomb type of package.
Shouting Good Morning Vietnam to motivate the troops.
Trying to minimise their damage.
Cos I can’t help it.
I’m a funny guy, and a devil of habit.
Ready to travel to battle, all g’eed up in my Full Metal Jacket.
Hoping I can save Toon Town from these clowns and clear the name of Roger Rabbit.
But missions go wrong.
So I often spend time lying low.
Playing cards with my buddy Lion-O.
But he’s too good.
So I cheat harder.
Which doesn’t cut it with Cheetara.
Cos she’s smarter.
So I tell her it’s cool.
That we’re having a laugh.
And this behaviour is in no way damaging Snarf.
But any good will she has, at this point, vanishes fast.
Cos he’s so impressionable.
And we do lead him astray in a silly way.
Which makes me want to trade places.
Like Winthorpe and Billy Ray.
Then take a flight back in time as the navigator.
Till I end up clashing Nazis in a fight cos I’m the raider.
But as I was named after the dog, I won’t excuse my behaviour.
Even though, in archaeological circles, my methods have kinda fallen out of favour.
So I’ll just say this.
Remember that, there, up there, it’s their time.
Down here, it’s our time.
It’s our time, down here.
So with life it’s best just to plunge in, have adventures and say fuck it.
Cos it’ll all be over the second we choose to ride up Troy’s bucket.

Salt and pepper man

The other day I went to go and shave.
And saw my face had started to grow and change.
My stubble was silver.
This was a low blow and no token phase.
Cos lately, ‘I’m getting old’ has become my go-to phrase.
But left me wondering, what the hell happened?
Is just over a decade in London enough to leave me battered?
Exhausted each day so I collapse all knackered.
I mean, what gives?
It’s not like I have kids.
What’s that phrase?
Something about if the cap fits.
Cos I probably say ‘I’m getting old’ enough each day to score a hat trick.
So yeah, I can’t ignore the matter at hand.
Is there a way to halt the process?
Should I start to fathom a plan?
Put the word out and gather a clan.
Build myself a team of guys in their 30s and 40s.
Kinda like The Expendables.
But young dads with steady jobs.
We can be Team Sensible.
Or Team Dependable.
And meet up to discuss when we became so terrible.
And work out the point at which we turned spherical.
Or maybe talk about how, on nights out now, we decline those chemicals.
Cos drugs aren’t for us.
We’ve got enough aches and pains.
If we add a comedown on top we won’t escape for days.
Cos it’s the little things that amuse me now.
Like how I put my hands on my knees (with a sound effect) to get up from a chair.
Makes me think life should come with a clause.
A Buyer Beware.
But it’s not like we can trade in our bodies when we’re under fifty.
For me, it’s all about that afternoon sleep.
I get a sick kick when slumber hits me.
Probably the same kids get watching Disney.
Or a cowboy does when he necks a whisky.
But aside from naps, there’s other things to mention.
Like they say sport’s supposed to give you energy.
Get you high on adrenaline.
But don’t listen to the lies that exercise is peddling.
Cos I’m knackered after a workout.
A broken specimen.
Should have trained harder till my muscles were armour like a Trojan regiment.
However a lot of the time, I wish I’d stayed home.
As nights in are the new nights out.
But ‘Netflix and chill’ should not mean sex.
Instead, why can’t we talk?
There are plenty of subjects.
Or instead sit in silence like inanimate objects.
Letting TV numb us as paralysis onsets.
Yeah, that sounds good to me.
But while I’m at it, here’s another thing.
Somehow, still, I get labelled a millennial.
To get down with the kids, I could backtrack and use snapchat.
But this is no way credible.
Cos that group follows a path I just wouldn’t tread at all.
Which is maybe regrettable.
But that’s more than cool.
I mean, soon I’ll be 35.
I’ve got other fish to fry.
Cos often I get stuck on the side of life’s highway.
Wishing I could hitch a ride.
Or at least my brain insists I try.
Despite the fact that getting old has me mystified.
And makes me think I need to punch through to my desired reality with fists that fly.
Cos I just want new experiences.
Like, to see Versaille.
And see Brunei.
And get better at cooking Thai.
And baking pies.
Perhaps learn to stay out of trouble with an alibi.
(On a side note, someone should have said this to Sam Allardyce. But he messed up. Then they had to sack the guy).
But I’ll stop there.
Cos life’s all about sacrifice.
Or so they say.
But I like to fantasize.
And self-indulge with fantastic rhymes.
Cos it’s more inspiring than telling lies.
Especially to myself.
Which is, frankly, the most telling crime.
And, if I’m honest, is one I just can’t abide.

Groundhog boy

When I wake each day.
And think about leaving the house.
I tend to freeze up.
Cos I’m shrouded by doubt.
Forced to bear my stare in the mirror.
But all I find is a frown.
Is this it?
I say, glancing down.
Sizing up my figure like I haven’t realised it’s round.
Cos I’m tubbier these days.
Always saying I’ll hit the gym.
Get ripped and thin.
Build a hard body all sculpted.
One that’s fit for kings.
But right now I’m more pauper material.
Stuck in a dream that feels forced and ethereal.
Wanting to scratch my skin from within.
But not really sure that the cause is bacterial.
Like there’s tiny critters invading my veins.
Breaking me down and planning my burial.
More likely something else troubles me.
This is I ponder as I’m sat drinking bubble tea.
Then a thought seduces me lovingly as it’s introduced suddenly.
I want a simple life.
One that’s calm and puzzle free.
Where it’s totally normal to demand a shrubbery.
Cos there’s a lot to learn from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
Like how to not charge through life on a silly quest.
Where the end goal seems to be to slowly fail.
Cos when it comes to the human existence.
My body’s more ill-equipped than I’ll admit.
All whispy, spectral and grossly frail.
At best, I’m a phantom man who can’t fathom a plan.
As I amble along this ghostly trail.
Cos words are dead on my lips from life’s perilous hits.
So my creative flow is mostly stale.
And the story I’ll probably tell at the end.
Will likely be that of a lonely tale.
But maybe I’m blowing things out of proportion?
And these words I say are a shakedown, extortion and not to scale.
But in all honesty, I have been feeling lately like I’m locked in jail.
Trapped battling my own personal monster, like Captain Ahab.
With no real clue how I stop this whale.
As it drags me down to the ocean’s floor.
Salt water in my lungs.
Sneaking in like a Trojan Horse.
Till I’m as numb and cold as a frozen corpse.
But this got me thinking.
Everyone needs an antagonist, right?
One that can fight like Tyler Durden.
Because an alter ego is probably the only thing to help me break life’s chains.
So I can be more certain and free of burden.
But whether I get one or not.
It might now be the case that I’ve lost the plot and I’m way off topic.
Spouting nonsense like a lost prophet.
Why can’t I just stop it?
And be practical for once.
So I think in specifics.
Instead of simply resorting to gimmicks.
Painting a picture that doesn’t exist.
And then persisting by forcing the image.
Which is stupid.
Because I’m a force to begin with.
And it’s time I took myself by the scruff of the neck.
Otherwise, middle of the road is as good as it gets.
And I can’t settle.
It’s just not in my nature.
I’m much better at rebelling with truth than being a faker.
But to win, I need weapons to attack my psyche.
Give me a sabre, give me a razor.
Hell, I know origami, I’ll even do it with paper.
Watch me put in work on these rogue thoughts like they’re manual labour. 
Cos I’m relentless. 
And won’t stop with detractors till I weed out the traitors. 
Lay waste to their negativity till they’re nothing but vapour. 
So at the end, in the smoking rubble.
There’s stands a lone figure, a stranger.
All lit up like a saviour.
Turns out that it’s me. 
I’ve broken free.
And become stronger through failure. 
Cos I’ve emerged from my chrysalis.
And I’m all the more greater. 

Finding my voice

When I started writing and performing.
I took a lot of inspiration from battle rap.
Thinking, if I could master my nerves.
Then with the rest of the scene.
I figured maybe I could handle that.
But my early material was pretty basic.
I didn’t rate it.
I just didn’t think I had the knack.
Cos crowds were daunting.
And would give me the hump like a camel back.
So on stage I’d shake.
That adrenalin taste proper prepping me for a heart attack.
So I’d try and project.
But my voice would wobble.
Like a CD that keeps skipping parts of tracks.
So I doubled down to beat the nerves.
And began upping my tempo with faster raps.
But found that they didn’t land with the crowd.
Like a baseball player finding that he’s last to bat.
So I went back to basics.
Began to tell stories that were way more personal.
Which had a reaction.
So I became more purposeful.
And my writing got tighter and practically surgical.
Cos now I was cutting to the core of the matter like I was slicing vertical.
My pen and verses now had purpose.
No longer was I writing merciful.
My emotional baggage all over the place.
Like a busy airport type of terminal.
Cos as a problem, this was workable.
Now my material leapt off the page.
But it had taken so long to get to this stage.
By never pushing myself, how was I expected to change?
Cos this situation had left me intense and deranged.
Selling myself short had become a senseless exchange.
So to preserve my sanity, I now write every day.
Flexing my emotional muscles so that they get exercised.
Purging demons with my pen till they’re exorcised.
Digging into my psyche.
Seeing which parts of me will be next in line.
Cos it’s amazing how, with words, you can get this high.
Although the process kind of has me petrified.
Not long ago I muddled along with the masses.
Now I feel like I’ve left that tribe.
In uncharted territory.
Wondering if I should dive in properly and test this vibe.
Is it worth it, this poetry?
Should I invest the time?
At this point your guess is as good as mine.
Because our complex emotions are as deep as the ocean.
They ebb and flow.
And if you fight and suppress them.
You’ll fast discover that they’re a worthy foe.
Feelings will peck at your mind.
Taking flight when you reach for them like a nervy crow.
It’ll be like you’re lost in a blizzard.
Trying to see your way through blurry snow.
Yeah, this is how your journey goes.
Maybe you’ll turn to religion.
This is probably what the clergy hopes.
Just don’t make snap decisions.
Thinking you can strengthen your position with an early vote.
But I’m making it all sound like a murderous chore.
Is expressing myself really worse than before?
It’s like pre-poetry I was trapped in a room.
And writing has helped me burst through the door.
So now my language has tactics.
Like scrabble, my words do backflips.
Cos all I’m ever doing is learning to score.
So each time I put pen to paper it’s a game and cathartic.
Every day, I get better with letters.
Cos I’m just taming my artist.
In a state of psychosis I explore my neurosis.
Cos I’m a Doctor at this and my mind is my TARDIS.
And as I get more bold and evolve, I’m proud to say that my resolve is the hardest.
My imagination infinite.
Like space, with its cold and its darkness.
It’s where I find my creative place.
And reveal my true face.
It’s where I’m the calmest.