I admit it,

I have a weak spine

I have weak shoulders

a weak grasp on patience

an even weaker grip on reality

a weak pair of legs

weak arms and weak hands

I have weak trust in humanity

and a weakness for the strong gin

that I drink as compensation.



The End

We were companions

not lovers

in the end


we had no place else to go



-what hurt me most is that you believed that


Like I was a bird, caged.



I remember you used to say to me

I’d never find another ‘you’

-it’s true


If that was all I ever needed

I’d still be there with you.

Coffee Shop

I often used to sleepwalk to Rimskis café

for some post-insomnia self-medication

comprised of several hits of caffeine

and a lengthy ‘people watching’ session.


I used to sit outside on fine days

slurping at the froth of my cappuccino


smoking cigarettes

staring at the town clock

watching the time pass.


It’s from here I noticed

how many people routinely go about their days

looking utterly miserable.


On rainy days

my coffee froth moustache

would sit atop my lip

as I slouched in my window seat.


Sometimes, people I knew

would turn up and join me.


There’d often be a row of us

up against that window

staring out at a world

that none of us would ever fit into


-though we tried

even if it took

four or five coffees

to consider facing it.



The Girl Who Tripped

There was a girl

I’d known

since nursery

grew up to be a schoolyard gossip

-wasn’t that steady on her feet


every time she rushed toward us excitedly with

her latest report on who’d done what with whom

she would always manage to trip over some invisible obstacle

she tripped, but never actually fell.


it was part of our daily routine

every morning break time

three of us sat on a bench beneath the tree

at the school entrance

one or two other older kids lurking nearby

and her, lunging toward us clumsily with a “guess what…”

it was a comedy to behold

I used to secretly wish her to break a leg

before each performance.



As a child I was always awestruck

by the sound of guitars

be it intricate fingerpicking, loud screaming guitar solos

or trusty strumming patterns I’d hear from buskers

in the subways or on the streets of my hometown

so, in a primary school music lesson one day

when the teacher was asking us what instruments we’d like to learn

I knew exactly what I wanted, and it had six strings attached to it

when it came to the handing over of chosen instruments

The teacher offered them to us in alphabetical order

Surname, alphabetical order and I was near last on the list

I recall myself getting panicky at the amount of guitars

Those other kids had claimed

lo and behold when it came to my name

there were none available

they offered me a clarinet as a second prize

a flute as a third

then finally something with four strings that dwarfed me

A cello.


I took the cello because it had strings.


It wasn’t a labour of love for me

from day one

it was a chore

I loathed every practice session

and I applied myself grudgingly

the cello was huge

it had a flimsy tan leather carry case

with a dodgy handle that was always threatening to break.


They attempted to teach me to read sheet music

but my heart wasn’t in it

it wasn’t a guitar it was a beast

a cumbersome awkward beast

a beast that didn’t play rock songs

a beast that I had to lug around like a deadweight

it was the threat of having to walk it to school

every day when I was moving up from primary to secondary

that finally made a bed for my cello to lie in

I’ve never forgiven those bow-wielding music lessons

for my clumsy guitar skills either

I’ll curse them to the grave.


Out here on the periphery

you’re in good company

you are exactly where you need to be

able to wander the world with eyes wide open

unchained, unhindered

free of cliques

they get too stuffy


some cats are too busy being cool to realise they’ve

wasted the best eight of their nine lives.


I’ve always been an outsider looking in

personally, I prefer to breathe the fresh air

of the wilderness and on occasion

the stale odour of reality

coming from the seat just across from to me

on this train to nowhere

I choose to lose gracefully

As I drift off the edge of the horizon.


The older I get the more the bones complain

it rattles me when I rattle them


early this morning going through my wardrobe

I passed a cursory glance over a row of ill-fitting blouses

from an era before cake


this resulted in me swiftly refocusing

on a set of boney fingers

dangling limp and lifeless from the clothes rail

then another set, then another


and skulls grinning at me, all teeth and jawbones

and eye pits all fixed directly on mine

-like post-it notes for those of a morbid inclination


I hear them rattling on-

“Hey, you remember us? That time we hung out together, and you…”

“Do you recall that we used to…”

“I can’t believe you did…”


They can’t walk themselves to the grave

I’m going to have to carry them some day.


You’ve been battling demons that don’t belong with you

they’re wrestling you

to make you see you don’t need them

they’re strong, so they cause you pain

it is only you, holding onto them


they don’t love you

nor do they need you

they want rid of you

and they’ll succeed

-if you don’t


the grip they have on you

is only as strong as how long you will tolerate

the pain of the headlock

that you put yourself in.



I’m happy in my bitterness

that’s the truth of it

this bitterness is proof I’ve lived

it’s a consequence of being alive

one way or another

I managed to go through this life

with wide eyes, open to experience

I was sweet and naïve, and the world made me bitter

but there is nothing so sweet

as a healthy dose of bitterness

to deter the company of shallow-end-toe-dippers

when you’re busy diving into the deep stuff

I’m not in this life to paddle

I’m here to swim.



Oftentimes we say the same thing

at the same time

sing the same song

out of the blue


It seems we were both wired up

by some mad scientist

inventor of strange little creations

to connect like magnets

no matter the distance


I don’t believe in coincidence


The moment we met

I knew-

like sand and sea

we belonged.


You’re attracted to the façade of fame

It’s a killer that you keep going back for more

like a moth fluttering around a lightbulb

beating your wings vigorously for nothing

throwing yourself at that hot glass orb

flying blind into an artificial sun.


you exhaust the very light around which you hover

and when eventually you spiral down scorched and disillusioned-

you curse your dreams for souring the taste

of your imaginary honey.



countless fireflies are

vying for your attention.


Temporary Grace

This surface has a temporary grace

a fingerprint, a name, a recognisable face

here’s a shoulder to cry on, when the world grows cold

here are my open arms, my hand to hold

While beneath my eyelids

I am always awake

the architect of my dreams

choreographer of the moves

tearing down and rebuilding worlds

the playwright, script and scene

The actor in costume

a child playing hide and seek.


So, count to ten, try to find me

try to find me where I roam

don’t weigh me up in flesh and bone

that’s like staring at the building

and never making it home

you need to dig deeper

for the gold

you need to dig deep

for the gold.

The Vase

Like a vase of dead flowers

bowing out of existence

once vibrant, where petals and leaves caressed

now wilted, they shrivel and fall.


Love abandons love

our hearts land hard

broken, like a shattered vase

the shards of glass

cutting like razor blades.


We attempt to pick up the pieces

though no glue can mend them

nor resurrect those flowers.


We sweep up the remnants of our lives

until only a tidy sorrow can question

what might have been.


How Pieces of Me Disappeared

They set my feet in concrete when I wanted to dance

I lost my patience.


I was born to roam free, so they caged me

stole my lions’ roar and I lost my pride.


They discussed me like an abstract art exhibit

that they didn’t find aesthetically pleasing

I lost my imagination.


They cut out my tongue when I wanted to sing

I lost my voice.


They sent me to sleep with fairy-tales

of lands, they tell me, never really existed

there goes my happy ending.



You confide in the moonlight

night after night

your endless disenchanted lullabies

I know you ache to smile

through each wave of disappointment

yet the song grows older still

as do you.


Your world of false limitations

fantasies and infatuations

they leave you weak at the knees

far too eager to please.


You’re barely living, but very much alive

don’t underestimate either

nor the way you steal their hearts

when the mist lifts from your mind

when you drop your disguise

open your eyes

there’s more to wisdom than being wise

more to dreams than lullabies.

Flightless Grey Birds

Flightless grey birds, newspapers

full of yesterday’s faces, crumpled and torn, trampled

the room is littered with my most valued possessions

turned out across the floor carelessly

smashed up, because they hit a raw nerve or two.


They remind me of innocence

or lack of it

my first cigarette

my last gulp of wine

each tear-drop, scar and bruise



I’m worn thin with them, in this

sleep deprived, self-imposed isolation

as the pen bleeds melancholia

long into the small hours

into the dawn, into the day

through stained fingertips

into the clammy afternoon.



As evening sweeps the remnants of broken glass from the floor

the spills of another hard-luck tale

that got sucked in through the door

I’m hunched in the corner of a dead-end bar

this loner’s game

like walking out into a night without stars.


The crowd stagger clumsily into the street

as smoke curls around my fingertips

rising like an apparition

from a city of ash-brittle dreams.

Nothing So Constant

There is nothing so constant

as the moon and stars

down here on the concrete Earth

we’d tear down the sky

if we were equipped to redesign it

we destroy all that we create

even our own history

deleted scenes

memories edited to suit peace of mind

recalling only the favourable times

decorating them with pretty words

anything less than perfect is an eyesore

I dissect everything I ever knew

under the scrutiny of the constant moon.


8.00 am

Sunday 8.00am

rain trickles down a grey windowpane

I stare through the speckled glass

drawing a smiley face in the condensation.


The aroma of smoke and cheap perfume

lingers in last night’s clothes

carelessly strewn in a haphazard trail

that leads to the messy sheets of a bed

I have barely slept in.


Jukebox songs still ring in my ears

along with the ghosts of laughter, chatter

images of people fighting for the bar

images that end abruptly.


I gnaw my fingernails nervously

trying to recall the journey home

my head swims like a demented fish

the rain applauds.



The bartender’s long fingers

undress my petty words

as I play a one-sided game of chess

with a selection of empty shot glasses

he sees through me

as though I myself were made of glass

he’s met with this emotional cul-de-sac

a thousand times.


He plays psychotherapist

to every drunken case study

that stumbles by here

hears all the talk of the town

he is the oracle of whispers

he knows everything

I don’t know his name.


To monotony and mediocrity; chained
in the wreckage and ruin of an average day
I rack my brain and try to recall
the last time the media excited my intellect
after all
it’s been a while since emotions were deemed important
to the human cause
as I slalom downhill through drifts of disappointment
it’s like we’re in this race to complete a chore
a complete bore
with a lack of adrenaline and endorphins.

to endure this mundanity
requires total indifference.

I’m different-
an ‘as is’ package
I contain all ingredients
all flavours of emotion
and I recall what it meant to be alive
I can taste the bitterness
the sweetness, the false and the true
in each bite that I take out of life
and when it comes to the crunch
I swallow it down with the salt of my tears
because I wasn’t born for a nonchalant world
of half-assed entertainment, cheap deals, ready meals
a defecation on-demand ideal.

Reduced to the products we buy into
we’re the profit margins
percentages, labels
price tags and barcodes
of an ethos devised by men in high places
who drive fast cars, who have fat wallets
who live in big houses with plastic wives
who go under the knife to stay young
whose diamonds and sequins make them sparkle and shine.

While some may stare enviously
at the lack of laughter lines
and want their share of
Botox, liposuction, plump pouts
facelifts, designer vaginas, boob jobs
I seriously doubt
they own any
of the insecurities, they flaunt day in day out
That demand they conform
to the only ideal they know
-a fake.

Well, damn society
for deeming the contents less important
than the book cover
intelligence less worthy than breasts
the brain might be our sexiest, most sensual
most alluring feature
and intelligence makes us tick
it’s the most potent aphrodisiac I know
you should try it sometime.


A Lack of Colour

The sky was grey

the mist over the clifftops was grey

the sea grey

the horizon line had turned so pale a grey

it couldn’t be seen with the naked eye

the mood was grey

grey seabirds were flying up above

singing, grey seabird songs

the sea air blowing across the beach

even had an icy chill, that felt grey

with occasional grey raindrops

that stung my pale grey face (and pink nose)

as grey waves were crashing on the shoreline

colliding violently with grey rocks

I walked along the grey sand

the shadows beneath my weary eyes, grey

the woollen hat on my head, grey

the hair beneath it prematurely grey

my thoughts-


it was a grade A, grey day

that lasted and lasted

you see

there was a distinct lack of colour

without you.



Small Steps

I revive myself

nobody else can do that for me

I take small steps

they’ll amount to giant leaps given time

rebuilding my world as I want it to be

with a circle of genuine friends

people who inspire positivity,

embracing our creativity

reliable friends, trustworthy

people who recognise the best in me

as I rebuild my sense of self-belief

tell negative thoughts, hush

so I can hear my own heartbeat

I am worthy of a voice

worthy of being heard

it’s not the whisper

it’s the words.

Revive me

Dying to be heard

in a world that doesn’t want to hear a word

of what’s been survived

behind and outside of these eyes.


Considered weak, pathetic dramatic wild

cast aside avoided, ignored and denied

you know why don’t you?


It’s taboo

to let people in on the truth of you.


To admit there’s a darkness

eating you, a silent killer inside of you

it creeps that way

as you wrestle your own shadow

to the ground.


Claw at the air for signs of life

clutch at straws for hope

stare, through the reflection in your mirror

trying to remember

your last genuine smile

in a world that is blind

to your mind.


Revive me


Subtle Communication

There are subtle ways, of communicating our pain

there are polite ways, to approach the subject

whatever troubles us can be solved slowly and carefully

tip-toe around the matter in hand quietly

apply tactfulness and soothing words to the wound

hold our tongues for a spell, if we must

choose the right moment approach cautiously

we can avoid the matter entirely, deny it ever came into being

or place our faith in karma working its magic later

write it in a letter or a text to avoid immediate confrontation

paint a smile on a frowning face, pretend all is well

show love to those we truly hate as a form of twisted vengeance

pretend we’re saints and above our share of the blame


-Or we can be direct, and stop this nonsense

right now.


New Book Available

A Nest of Strange Little Creations is an autobiographical diary of events, feelings, and experiences explored through poetry, jumbled up and collected together in this book to be shared with you, the reader. Our emotions both reflect and affect those who surround us. We are all in effect involved in an emotional conversation with each other even as we sit quietly on our own. Our minds still busy processing the experiences of the day and weighing it up against a lifetime’s worth of information. Poetry is my catharsis. I offload this information, so I can consider it, refer to it and track my emotional journey. Once it is written down, however, and my words lay naked on the page with all the vulnerability of what it means to be alive, our happiness and sadness, our laughter and our tears, our bitterness and our hopes, our dreams and disappointments the lessons we have learned, and those we’ve still to learn. That’s when I realise that what I’ve written becomes less about me and more about us.

This book contains selected poems from ‘Night Owl’ previously released through blurb.com and a selection of poems never before published. This first edition copy of my book in paperback will set you back a hefty £5.99 to purchase 164 pages of poetic content.

Purchase Book at Lulu





These bones of broken faith

crushed by the hand of fate

this twisted contorted us.


Staring through our mirror world

we sing the same lullaby

a hymn to lost time

we reflect each other’s light

it is just

-another sleepless night


where words cascade from my fingertips

letters slide off the pages

swallowed by the pools of black ink

my tears have become.


I regret what is past

cannot be undone

these brittle remains

disintegrate as I sip

each sweet word that passes your lips.


I need you to sit beside me

read me to the end of the book

leave the last page open.


Who would dare to unveil

memories I cast into deepest corners of my mind?

Coiled up like tightly wound springs

hidden from prying eyes,

for fear of them bursting free.


I am a wild flowing river,

capable of flooding this great city of life-


I’d sooner drown silently in the swells of sorrow

than make islands of us all.


I keep a close watch on defending my rights,

hold a blind stare

through history I unwrite

in a fortress, I guard zealously

with violent pride, these wine-soaked days.


Sometimes I swipe the earth from beneath my feet

fall free, through thin air and

I dream of a soft pillow

that might catch me.


Though there’s no comfort inside of this fortress,

tears fall like rocks from my eyes,

the landslide of my pillow

fits the contours of my face, smothers me

seals me in my place like a sarcophagus.


How will you know my heart?

if not too tender to touch

pulsing the life through these veins

to stand guard, over all I love and all I cannot.


How often my heart sinks when you talk that way,

when you remind me

how it was when I was drowning.


Caught in a maelstrom of emotions, delusions and paranoia

when I was lost to myself completely.


Now I watch and listen, over my glass of gin

tonic, ice and a slice of citrus, bittersweet

pondering possible cures.


There are no answers

when the light leaves your eyes,

not even a healthy dose of hindsight, and wishful thinking.


Every little pinprick in the fabric of the sky,

each distant star sewn into the veil of night

portraying how beautiful it can be to dream

yet how impossible, dreams are to grasp.


Still, we gaze into those ink-black skies

awestruck by the majesty of the universe

small; almost insignificant by comparison,

yet we weigh our tiny, whimsical dreams against the stars.


-Like we were miniature gods

that we could command this night

to fulfil our deepest wishes

simply by turning our eyes to the heavens and praying.



for what we believe, we deserve

greedy enough to believe

that the night owes us our day.

Scared of Heights

I guess it’s a survival mechanism
if you’re up there somewhere
you can just as easily fall down
and that’s a long way.

Even as you place me on this pedestal
I’m terrified I’ll fall, it’s a precarious place
the vertigo of such high expectations
such strong admiration
the image of perfection you see in me-

What if I told you, I’m not so sure that’s me?

Writers Block OR Recharging Creative Battery

Sometimes we need a little time to creatively reset. I’ve got writer’s block currently but this is the case because I have little more to write about than my daily experiences at the moment and my daily routine has changed considerably over the last month. You see I struggle with my weight because I struggle with severe anxiety which has meant for a long time I’ve been very reclusive and staying indoors, turning to food for comfort and not burning off the calories I’m putting in. Consequently, I now need to lose about 60 lbs to return myself to a healthy weight and physical state.

The good news is I’ve had a care worker helping me to get out and about more for the past year and now I’m able to face the world with a lot more confidence. I can go out again on my own and I do, now, venture out purely for exercise. Nothing too strenuous just walking but up to about 10 miles a day in short bursts. This doesn’t leave much time for reflection on daily events or current affairs. However, it’s making me feel more energised in other ways and making me feel better about myself for finally tackling the damage that has been caused by my anxiety and reclusive habits.

I’ve overhauled my food intake and it’s much healthier and in smaller portions, but without starving myself. I’ve struggled with my weight before, it fluctuates at the best of times but I’ve been too skinny before and I know that’s not healthy either. My days then, are taken up with noting what I eat, calorie counting and walking, and on rainy days doing step aerobics indoors. All of this is a big change for me especially as my anxiety is also part of being Bipolar and depression can make you very tired and lethargic. It’s hard to get motivated, find the energy, or feel positive about making this sort of effort as you can tend to feel like a hopeless case and believe only the worst of things. Mania, on the other hand, can make you lively, dangerously impulsive and clumsy but generally end up with you burning out and sliding back into depression.

The good thing is that I’ve confronted my negative thoughts and my mirror and said to myself enough is enough. I’ve pushed myself through the lethargy and pushed myself through the anxiety, pushed myself through the feelings of failure and self-hate and I can honestly say the initial struggle was worth it. I still have to make a conscious effort to go out and walk or stay in and exercise, but I have more energy through doing those things than I imagined I’d ever have again. I’m steadily losing lbs and things are starting to head in the right direction. I feel better inside and out but I do not underestimate the effort I’ve put in to start moving again. Depression is a very serious illness and struggle, Anxiety can be life stopping, I also have PCOS which causes fatigue and puts me at higher risk of getting diabetes type II, underactive thyroid which does the same in the fatigue department. So several reasons why energy as much as motivation to go out has been lacking for so long. I think it’s true what they say about endorphins mind. You do get a sense of a natural high after a bit of regular exercise and you do get pretty hooked on the good vibe and energy that gives you after a while.

I don’t see myself as a jogger or a runner in the future as I have an old ankle injury from a bad break back in 2010 that still plays up and I wouldn’t want to over aggravate it. I can always increase my walks and/or look at other forms of exercise like swimming or gym activites.

I was getting to the point where if I didn’t get moving my joints would seize up and my ability to walk would leave me. My weight would become a major health concern.

So, in a nutshell, I’m busy trying to get myself back together in health and spirit and weight. I could write endless poems about that but it’d get boring and I don’t want to go over old ground and repeat myself. I write when I’m inspired to write. There’s no use forcing it. So bear with me while I have a recharge and I’ll write more poems when inspiration grabs me. You can’t look after your creative message unless you look after yourself. I’m doing this for me now. Nobody else. Despite all the cruel things people say and the way, they judge and body shame you when you’re either too skinny or too overweight. I am doing this because I personally want to feel better both inside and outside. It seems to be working and it will be a long time before I reach my goal, but all the pushing through the barriers of my mental and physical health problems seems to be paying off. It’s made a massive change and given me hope for the future again.






General Thoughts on Creativity (Not a poem)

In anything artistic, be it literature, music, art, crafts, photography, acting, dancing, singing…you need to grow a thick skin because critics are everywhere, buyers are sometimes few, while admirers are many, and the personal cost to your confidence and your pocket is always high.

Even if you’re proven successful after years of trial, error, effort and paying the cost of building your skills and collections of work…there will always be some people who don’t like what you do and some that do.

Please remember the praise you receive is real and justified, don’t think because other people may think differently to that, that praise is any less valid than criticism.

We’re all wanting reassurance we’re on the right path, sure we are,  but when we get knock backs we need to just push forward harder and with more determination and rise above the naysayers. Otherwise, we self-destruct and that’s not right is it?

I’ve been a slow learner myself with these facts but I have had less heartbreak since I started to value my own worth more than the opinions of others. Yes, I am happy to hear what people think but I’m less likely to take it so deeply to heart these days that I feel like giving up. Some people can be cruel and far from constructive; to me, these people are welcome to their opinions but their opinions are not worth my time and misery.

Creative minds need to believe in what they do. They need to remain passionate about what they do. They need to hold onto the enjoyment in what they do. So sometimes what creative minds need to do is filter the incoming criticism with as harsh an approach as the criticism is given. To learn to ignore people who are being plain cruel. Learn to accept compliments as genuine encouragement in a positive direction, learn to listen to the voice of reason and constructive critique and yet apply only what rings true to you and keeps your creativity authentic. Most of all stay true to yourself, give yourself a break, we can be our own harshest critics, and above and beyond anyone else we punish ourselves the worst. So be kind to yourself. Believe in yourself, allow yourself to grow and flourish at your own pace in your own style in your own way. Remember it’s ok, to be different!

Throughout history, the greatest creative minds have been truly original, they’ve deviated from the norm. They’ve had their own voice their own style, their own dress sense, their own ways of expressing themselves. They’ve often faced criticism for not fitting into the boxes society had readily made for them. They were often misunderstood. Underestimated. Or bypassed in their time because they were ahead of their time or even created things completely timeless so they didn’t fit with fashion but they did eventually fit with the human soul and understanding and became posthumously famous on account of it.

Support your fellow creative minds while they are alive. That’s when things really matter. If you believe in someone’s creative output and believe in that person’s ability to shine. Tell them so. If you are the creative mind and you believe in yourself give yourself credit where it’s due. Never look down on yourself. Your calling to create is a precious gift. You are drawn to it and you work hard at it for a reason…it’s part of who you are.


I’m a homeopathic version of myself

key ingredients

diluted, diluted and diluted again.


Yes, I’m your homeopathic remedy

key ingredients,

diluted, diluted and diluted again


till I’m barely here at all

in my little glass bottle,

I’m no better than a placebo

in the grand scheme of things.


But if you take this therapeutic dose

and you truly believe it could work

I’m capable of great things.


One day, you’ll see

you never really needed to take this piece of me,

once you swallowed your faith

in yourself.

Sing Us To Sleep

They’re putting up barbed wire fences

between you and I

they’re burning down the bridges

raising up the walls

they’re showering the world with bullets and bombs

they’re tearing the peace flag down

they’re coming for us now

waving guns in our eyes

well, how do you sleep at night?


I sleep well-

because I never truly wake up

the nightmare will be there

eyes open

eyes shut

I should be terrified

I should be truly afraid

but they’ve numbed my senses

to their violent reign

day in, day out

The news channel speaks of war

like it’s expected

any day now

but never on our doorstep.


Who are we kidding?

to think we’re safe

wasting life away on Facebook

or watching trash TV shows

where our main concern is how popular we are

to the online freak-show

in a quest for a taste of fame

we’ve been conditioned to crave

while they put up barbed wire fences

between you and I

everything we’ve been dreaming of

was a wicked lie.


They’re coming for us now

waving guns in our eyes

how do you sleep at night?

how do we sleep at night?

how do I sleep at night?

the nightmare is real

eyes open, eyes shut.


What lullaby will they sing?

when they send us all to sleep.










Cracked Paint


Cracks in the paintwork will show,

No matter how many times you gloss over memories,

The rough grain of turbulent thoughts,

Will never be smooth,

You’ll feel the splinters penetrate your skin,

Your nerves raw, as your mind fragile,

No matter how many times you redecorate the room,

You’ll conclude that old woodchip wallpaper will simply have to remain,

Stuck fast to the plaster, beneath the new.

Your mistakes, regrets, and resolutions,

Follow you,

All your doing and undoing,

Will undo you,

For better or worse,

Fractures in the sky will appear,

Sunlight will shine in,

Rain will soak you to the bone and,

The cracks in the paintwork will grow,

Like vines of ivy on abandoned buildings.

Where nature reclaims her own,

Your character takes on new meaning,

You survive, you thrive,

Through it all,

Some flakes of paint,

May crumble and fall away,

Let them fall,

It’s the…

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