I self-publish my poems when they are still in their fundamental stages, so everything you see below is (at most) a third draft.

If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree it had better not come at all.

-John Keats.

If you would like to see more unfiltered writing by me that I refuse to over-edit (that comes as naturally as leaves to a tree), then do follow my Instagram account @lilywrites 2025.

Can a whole year pass

In the single setting of a sun?

I watch, pretending to be mesmerised,

As dying rays catch and play with his hair.

He smiles at me,

And in the gathering gloom,

I try to smile back,

I think I do.

In the shadows, I hope he won’t

Notice the distant gaze that takes over my eyes.

He must know I’m somewhere else,

In some other place,

Looking at some other sun that sets.

He just doesn’t know where.

The faint orange glow

At once takes me back,

Tracing the curve of a back

I had thought was forgotten,

Lost to me forever.

But in this sinking glow,

You’re there, beside me, again.

I turn to face the dying sun,

Certain it may never rise another day.

I am ashamed

Of the fantasy that still burns brightly in my brain.

Even though the both of us

Sought separation,

We both see sun in someone else’s eyes now,

The memory of our very last sunset

Is still as clear as day,

In my mind,

And mine alone.

I return to him, who sits beside me

I force my eyes to roam

His face

His smile

His eyes.

The sun is gone, and in the cold darkness of nightfall,

He places his jacket across my shoulders

And I remind myself that he is not you

And I am not her,

And the sun does not belong to us.

I couldn’t help but picture my skull.
In years to come, when the brain has dissolved away,
Or whatever the fuck happens to all the organs and fleshy bits when you…

Pass on.

My empty skull.
I had this terribly romantic notion of the wind gently caressing it,
Blowing softly in through my eye sockets
All round the empty walls,
That were once kept awake and alive,
By undead ghosts
And sweating the small stuff.
Then the wind would exit just as nonchalantly as it had entered,
Impersonally,
Perhaps through my gaping jaws.
Maybe it wasn’t a terribly romantic image after all.

I tried, then, to be conventional.
I tried to force that age old image to reappear,
The one that had got me through my days of primary school Catholicism,
Of clouds and light and joy and just general goodness.
I’m trying to picture heaven,
And I don’t know why its taking so much effort.
I don’t see the dainty cherubs,
I’m not surrounded by the happy, smiling faces of my loved ones.
If I have loved so many, so greatly,
Then where the fuck is everyone?

I find myself stuck in an empty glass box.
Opaque and threatening to shatter at any given moment.
Every footstep I take echoes off the walls, the ceiling, the floor,
Each one as impartial as the other,
Reminding me, quite simply, that all I’m alone.

I’m trying to picture heaven,
But all I achieve is blank bleak emptiness.
Every waking thought lost,
Every dying word left unsaid,
No heaven, no hope.
And I know that this is a failing on my part,
But I can’t be sure if its
A failing of my imagination,
Or a failing of my faith.
And I don’t know which would scare me more.

I realised I was living in a city set in greyscale.  Not in a sexy, romantic, black and white movie from the 50’s kind of way, but in a miserable kind of way that left everything dull and faded, and set a permanent scowl on my face.  Sure, it hadn’t been like that yesterday, or even this morning.  I’d passed an ice cream stall, of all things, with a sun umbrella set outside.  I’d smiled, and could have sworn the sun was beating down on my back.  It had almost made me want to take my jacket off.  Almost, but I’m not delusional. 
 
I thought about that sun umbrella, set outside the ice cream stall, and how it would be more likely to serve its purpose protecting customers from the rain.  Then again, there wouldn’t be any customers, because who fancies an ice cream in this weather, anyway?  I’ve got no idea why anyone in their right mind would open up a permanent ice cream stall in Central London, anyway.  I mean, we get about three days of heatwave, and the rest of the time it’s this – this in between weather, where we find ourselves just waiting for it to actually rain, so we can put our hoods up and moan.  

But this isn’t really about the weather.  This is about me, sitting in a coffee shop, waiting for you.  Or waiting for it to rain, whichever comes sooner.  The rain, by the looks of it.  I hate to think how much time I spent sitting there, staring out the window.  Staring at the sky, not at every single person that hurried past.  Not sitting and watching and waiting for you.  I was far too busy to wait for you, anyway.  But you were supposed to meet me here, and after sitting alone for half an hour, nursing a cold cup of coffee I’d only ordered to stop the barista’s questioning stares, I officially declared you a no-show.  Or maybe you were just late…?  

Either way, it didn’t really matter.  I had articles to read, and my laptop beside me, and here was as good a place as any to get some reading done.  I stopped staring out the window – at the sky – and opened up an article about depression and addictive desire.  How apt.  In a failed attempt to distract myself from the lively chatter of stupid people, I pulled my headphones over my ears.  The music, even on full volume, wasn’t loud enough to block out the sound of my own sigh.  I told myself it didn’t matter, and that I was busy, and that it was better, really, that you hadn’t turned up, but the steady slump of my shoulders, and the pull of my lips, dragging downward, told a different story.  

I focused my eyes on the article, feigning deep and sincere interest, without actually being able to read a single word.  There were only strangers’ eyes on me.  I looked outside again at the sun that offered no warmth and kept thinking to myself, over and over, today is a very cruel day.  

My breath was short and sharp and sparse when I finally left the café, after pretending to read that same article for the best part of two hours.  My feet led to god knows where.  I wanted to stop, take stock, figure out a place to go.  Instead, I walked and walked with no direction, roaming unknown streets like some stray cat.  I barged past a couple, holding hands.  The fact that two people could manage to take up an entire pavement was astounding, absurd, obscene.  I couldn’t help but shake my head as I overtook them, as though I had somewhere better to be.  As though my presence was urgently required in some other place.  As though I wasn’t as unwanted as your absence had made me feel.  I kept walking, and passed a lime bike for hire, standing alone in the middle of the pavement, abandoned at the end of someone else’s journey.  If I had felt stronger, I’m sure I would have pushed it over.  But I knew those bikes were heavy.  Heavier than they looked – and they looked damn heavy.  I’d had my share of humiliation for one day, so thankfully decided against trying to push over a lime bike that had done me no wrong.  
Some woman dressed in running gear jogged lightly past, deciding that my hesitant contemplation was a hinderance to her.  Her flashy trainers bounced along the pavement, grinning smugly, mocking me.  It took a hell of a lot of will power not to trip her as she glided past.  Teeth gritted, I marched on, until a flock of pigeons blocked my path.  If I just continued to walk, they were probably scatter.  But they were making no signs of moving.  Stupid grey pigeons.  I pressed on, heart beating very fast as the very plausible image of a woman found dead after an altercation with a flock of pigeons rose to mind.  I got very close to actually stepping on one of them, when they all flew upwards, in an erratic, chaotic spectacle showcasing flight and feathers.  

My face was burning red, out of fear or embarrassment, I’m not sure.  I came across a park I’d never before seen, and sat on bench and began to cry.  It was pathetic and miserable and dull and grey.  But it wasn’t because of you.  It wasn’t because you didn’t turn up, or any of that.  It wasn’t about the jogger, or the ice cream stand, or the couple holding hands, or the cold coffee I never drank.  It wasn’t even about the stupid pigeons.  I was crying because the sun was shining but it wasn’t warm, and because today is a very cruel day.

Your body lies comfortable, closed in a box
And never again will you think of the clocks.
You won’t think about all of this time that you’re wasting
Sitting around here, doing nothing but waiting.

Doctors and dentist and damned root canal
Are as tangible now as the touch of a whale.
You have no need to worry about the cold and the frost
In death all your coldness and feeling is lost.

You won’t notice the seasons, gradually changing
Or realise your youth is naturally fading.
You won’t dance in rainfall, or sunlight’s warm glow
You don’t have to try quite so hard now, you know?

And all of those thoughts that once filled your head,
Like just one more shift, I can rest when I’m dead!
Or death must be nice, so still and so quiet,
Nothing like life, which feels more like a riot.

All of those thoughts, they’ll just disappear,
You’ll know no more worry, won’t recognise fear.
And right about now, you’re waiting to say,
When’s it my turn, will today be the day?

Because I’ve painted a picture, morbid but pretty,
Of life underground, so far from the city.
Where the body lies still, at one with the earth,
And pinewood, apparently, was all you were worth.

Six pairs of hands shoulder the coffin
These were the people you saw most often.
Sniffing, they sob, and their shuffling feet
Carry them home, from the grass to concrete.

And you find yourself feeling confused and adrift
Wondering if there’s a message you’ve missed.
Is death something to fear, or should you embrace
The lure of your box, and sexless black lace?

Should you take comfort in getting to rest,
No longer working hard not to be stressed?
Should you eagerly turn to the end of the book,
Unable to resist just one sneaky look,

Demanding to reach the end of your story,
Bathing in well-wishes, peace, and God’s glory?
Or perhaps, this advice, to you I might give
Don’t think of death, but just try to live.

Try not to imagine your bones in the ground,
Weary no longer, not making a sound,
Not creaking and aching with each little movement,
Where death seems not like the end, but improvement.

Think of, instead, all that you’d leave behind
That essay, half-finished, springs to your mind.
And the great pile of books that sit on your desk
Now there’s a promising, sweet little quest.

They demand to be read, they must be, by you.
It’s a promise you made; it’s something to do.
And what of the poems that you never wrote?
And what of the words, still stuck in your throat?

Surely you cannot die, with so much unsaid,
We must pry out those words, get them out of your head.
How could you live with yourself, if you never tell?
Keeping your thoughts to yourself is a fate worse than hell.

So these words of wisdom, I’ll leave with you,
A spot of advice, just one bit will do,
Don’t leave all those thoughts unacted, unsaid
Because, otherwise, maybe, you’re better off…