The Creative's ideas Discarded, scattered; like a gambler's losing slips On the betting shop floor The Creative's confidence Lies at the base of a pit; choked to death At the hand of the scathing inner critic

Maybe Never Maybe never, will they know the pain? Maybe never, will they feel the same? To be shut out but, yet, locked in A world that light has never seen Paranoid, deluded fear See twisted faces laugh or sneer Promises to darkness fade Dismissed, forgotten, never made Left behind to sit alone There’s nothing left when all are gone Clouds block out the summer’s day Smiles and joy soon washed away Tears and anguished screams withheld As shattered, another dream dispelled Fake empathy, shallow concern Like twisting knives in wounds they turn Fulfillment from advice they’re giving Redundant in the #life they’re living Still, how could they understand? When always on their feet they land Though some day, with tables turned They’ll see it true, a lesson learned Maybe sometime will they know the pain? Maybe sometime will they feel the same?

How many Freudians does it take to screw in a bulb? Two: one to screw it in. One to hold the cock..father..LADDER!!

Playing Cards At first, one suit, A matching pair; The King and Queen of Hearts. At first, one suit, Their land they ruled; And were never seen apart. As time moved on, The more they dealt; The players showed their wear. As time moved on, Their faces dulled, Their edges they did tear. The cards no longer Slid with ease, Across the fine brushed baize. The cards no longer Reflecting bright, Were seen face down most days. New rules were set, A wildcard played, The knave of hearts was shown. New rules were set, Though all along, The game’s outcome was known. And now, two suits; The cards apart, Aces: Heart and spade. And now two suits; A new game begins, A fresh pack to be played.

Esteem? I’ll be on the sidelines at parties, In corners of pubs, you’ll find me. I won’t approach you cold-blooded, you’re out of my league; don’t you see? I won’t say a word when you’re talking, even though you will interrupt me. I won’t be the first to suggest things but will probably be first to agree. I’ll open the door for you kindly, I’ll let you in front in a queue. You won’t lift a finger to help me But I’ll bend over backwards for you. I’ll quietly let you upstage me And then hold a torch up for you. You’ll take the applause for my leg-work After all, credit where credit is due. I’ll never equal your stature, The right that was given at birth, But revel now in your stardom, For the meek shall inherit the Earth.