Here are a few poems from Will Davies - a poet who recently got in touch. We really like his stuff and if you do too then check out his blog here: JWR Davies
Tropical fish flit about like light through stained glass,
flickering like a fire, desperate and insane.
Like the ramblings of a drunk, circling the drain,
there is poetry in sadness in the crumbling refrain,
a flash of perfection and then nothing again.
You, the last person I spoke to before I went to sleep,
the first thing I thought about when I woke up.
You, the person I wanted to share all of my news with,
my shelter, my consoler my trusted council.
But, You, tore pieces from me, and left, and I remained...
a tattered mess, a sightless sight of unrest.
a pile of cotton, a mangled toy, you left...
but you insisted you hadn't.
and in the end I suppose I left,
I suppose I ripped out my own useless appendix,
shredded it for bedding and span my wheel.
The truth is, I think you know the truth,
that an omission is a lie,
so you said goodbye.
The smell of wood, the taste of coffee,
the wrench out of my bed in the morning
still ringing in my ears.
In floods the new day
through the gap around a door,
too small for its frame,
hello brain, hello head ache, hello morning.
Out are the dreams
of a world so perfect, yet unintelligible,
slowly as the blur comes into focus
and I wipe the sleep from my eyes,
there is day, there is work,
there is a new piece
to the same puzzle
that has puzzled me for years.
cast out and dejected, piling up my plate with misery,
just dry logs to fuel poetry that no one will read,
writing my will in the form of a free verse tragedy,
shooting up in the hall, veins flood with love,
and again i'm high above a cloud
pretending i'm weightless...
and again i'm thrown back down,
vomited up, stale and staggering,
heart burn, and tooth ache,
and a talentless void in my gut.
bitter snow flakes that burn,
with the warmth of a wood floors bathed in summer sun,
such high chairs to mount up on,
tact up on to the rubber walls,
pictures, and tickets and memories of fun.
alas i lack just lately dreams on which to run,
the cogs are clicking through the motion,
trundling along, fumbling for the starting gun,
skating on a chalk board, bathed in summer sun,
remorseful of my memories knowing what they become.