Poetry Trilogy by Alex Davies

Alex Davies

Alex Davies

I should probably explain why I write the poetry that I do. There are several things that affect the final outcome, from an obsessive compulsion to fit every poem into a syllabically-soothing rhyming structure to an incredibly low mood. It is usually the latter. To me poetry is a release of frustration brought on by writer’s block, aggression or often misery.

Lately it has been a final attempt to distract myself when being on the verge of suicide. Something I put down to either depression or medication. It works though, it’s kept me going this far, but sometimes the poems that result are not such easy reading.


Pencil Dents

I’m trying to write poetry,
I’m trying very hard.
Today I’ve scrapped no less than ten,
leaving this loose leaf scarred.

These pencil dents that don’t rub out,
they stay behind for good.
They torture me with failed lines,
in ways the block ‘lone could.

This writer’s block is torturous,
each pencil touch is cursed.
With ev-ry line I struggle down,
a dozen were rehearsed.

And still I don’t allow a break,
I bet you’ll wonder why?
It’s not determination no,
it keeps my tears inside.

If I pause for breath at all,
emotion leaves me dumb.
If I can just distract myself,
then I will not succumb.

Without a challenge ‘front of me,
I hit my lowest low.
My mind it hates me to the core,
it wants me to let go.

But with a poem (word jigsaw),
I can distract myself.
For long enough that I improve,
my fucking mental health.


A Final Prayer

Dear lord i’ve just one more request,
I know it’s quite the ask.
I’ve begged for lots through life’s cruel test,
but plead one final task.

I know you shouldn’t tempt the lord,
but my request is sad.
To tempt is to entice reward,
not make him feel bad.

I hate the fact that I survive,
although I should be pleased.
Each moment I do stay alive,
leaves me feeling diseased.

Life is a torture that’s for sure,
it’s cruel and wicked through.
There’s little good I smile for,
‘cept thoughts of nothing new.

A thought of peace the sweet release,
it’s all that helps me sleep.
Yet waking up each ev-ry day,
is ‘nough to make me weep.



Why is this life so hard?
Why is this life so shit?
Why do we walk and talk and all?
What is the point of it?

Why do I keep my face?
Why do I keep my grip?
Why don’t I just break down to tears?
Why can’t I let it slip?

Why can I not be true?
Why can I not be free?
Why do I hide myself away?
Why can I not be me?

I need some happiness,
Or need to end it all,
I can’t keep going on like this,
I need:




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