The myth of perfection is a corrupted and fake thing that insists and subsists on your being.

Le mythe de la perfection est une chose corrompue et faux qui insiste et ne subsiste sur votre être.

What is the point of an existence to simply continue that existence, especially one as pathetic as mine? With Life’s Sojourn… how if anything I have been wanting to move towards death and I keep backing up, as if that was my fault, which I it is.

Your fury knew no limit.

Have you wondered what life would be like if everything was reversed? Hmmm lets take a look….

Our world is more meaningful backwards.

Everybody needs words of comfort from time to time.

There are so many good and bad things about England.

We can’t all be saints, but we can try.

A rough draft of my poem from my anthology "Inside Out." Nameless describes the sense of loss of identity, in society we are named and that creates a meaning about who we are or who we should be. But who are we really? And will we always be haunted by our past and who we once were?

My nonsense poem from my poetry journal.