I recently made a decision that’s been very scary for me. I decided to start a “Buy Me a Coffee” page.

This is a page where you can read some of my poems. Some new ones, and some old favourites.

Readers who enjoy my work can donate a small amount, similar to buying me a coffee, which helps to support this site’s running costs. I am incredibly grateful for any support shown, and have been blown away by the kindness of people who enjoy my work.

If you’ve ‘bought me a coffee‘, thank you so much. If you would like to visit the site, it can be found here:

http://buymeacoffee.com/bchristianpoet

Thank you again.

Last week I had a week off my 9-5 job, so we’ve made the most of it; clearing out the house and shed of things that went either to the charity shop, or the recycling centre – the tip to my fellow Gen X-ers. We managed to travel to the beach on Monday, after Sunday’s closure for a half marathon, and I even managed to run to some chips for us both. This was followed by getting the lawns and garden at Bob Manor ready for winter, which surprisingly didn’t take as long as last year. It’s obviously thanks to my preparation and organisation this time. No stress or swearing either; result!

Midweek, we took a road trip to Glastonbury. Truth be told, it’s like a second home to both of us, and there’s so many great shops that sell all sorts of witchy supplies, books, and tarot cards. Need a new Buhdda or Ganesh statue? They’ve got you covered. I got some lovely pictures of our trip, (which I’ve put up on my social media). It was a much-needed and somewhat serendipitous event; you see, we had planned this trip weeks ago, and chose Wednesday as the most appropriate day. Unbeknownst to us, it was exactly the same date as we’d last been to Glasto, three years ago.

Then to finish the week off, “On The Dole” Magazine #1 dropped in America carrying one of my favourite pieces – the Dark Poets shortlisted “Hello Old Friend”. So, all in all, along with some local trips to the market, a local church for some photos for a good friend, and pootling about, it was a very restful but productive week.

Our local market, where I can usually be found on Saturday mornings, drinking coffee, always provides great conversation. Last week, I went on Friday instead and saw a gentleman who’d brought his birds with him (see attached below, as proof). It was amazing.

Stay safe x

They told us the revolution wouldn’t be televised,

But they forgot to mention it might be live-streamed.

Might be a screenshot, reposted, tagged.

Buried beneath brunch photos,

Then resurrected by a hashtag.

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Truth is, sometimes the front line has a comments section. 

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We used to pass flyers.

Now, we pass tweets.

Used to march down avenues,

Now we march through algorithms,

Dodging shadowbans like tear gas.

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Do not call this Slacktivism.

There’s a difference between

Performing and platforming.

Between the click

And the consequence.

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Because somewhere,

Someone is holding a phone to the sky

Like a torch. Like it’s the last thing

They have to prove they exist.

To prove that what happened

Did happen.

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You can ignore a scream in the street,

But not a video with 5 million views.

You can silence a person,

But not a movement made of code…

When it goes viral.

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This isn’t the solution, but it is a tool.

And tools build things. Or they tear them down.

So when I post, when I speak into this void

Which is disguised as a feed,

I’m not just chasing likes,

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I’m looking for you.

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The you who might see your struggle reflected

And someone else else’s bruise.

For you, who has forgotten that solidarity

Starts with listening.

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We don’t log in to escape the world,

We log in to confront it.

And sometimes, all it takes

Is one story, told with enough clarity

To cut through the noise.

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That’s not a miracle, that’s strategy.

That’s resistance,

With a Wi-Fi connection.

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(c)BobChristian

Years ago, I learned some truly shocking statistics about suicide – 800,000 lives lost every year. That’s one life every 40 seconds. It’s a deeply uncomfortable topic for many, but it’s one we simply can’t keep ignoring.

The truth is, suicide is the leading cause of death for men between 20 and 49. And while this affects all men, over 60% of newly-diagnosed autistic adults report having suicidal thoughts.

These numbers are devastating. We’re finally starting to talk more about mental health, but there’s so much more to be done to prevent people from reaching that point. To remind them that they’re not alone.

I nearly became a statistic many times in my younger years, and I’ve put down my thoughts in a scribble.

Every forty seconds
Someone ends their own life.

Not a metaphor.
Not a number on a website.
A person.
A real, human soul…
punched out like a clock card,
because the noise in their head
was louder than any help offered.

Forty seconds.
By the time you finish reading this poem,
someone else is gone.

But we don’t talk about it.
Not really.
We whisper it behind closed doors,
Use soft words like “passed away,”
or “lost them,”
As if they’d just wandered off into the woods
and forgotten to come home.

Mental illness is still a dirty word.
Still something we hide in drawers,
with old medication bottles
and family secrets.

We tell people
to “reach out”
but give them nothing to grab onto.

We applaud strength,
but punish vulnerability.
We ask, “How are you?”
but only want to hear:
“I’m fine.”

We romanticise broken artists
but ignore the broken people.
In our inboxes.
At our dinner tables.
In the mirror.

Some of us scream in silence.
Perfectly dressed.
Perfectly functional.
Perfectly invisible.

The truth is we lose more people
To quiet despair
than to war or violence.
And still, we treat therapy
Like a confessional booth,
Instead of healthcare.
Still, we treat emotion like weakness,
And stoicism like bravery.

It’s not brave
To bottle up the storm.
It’s brave to name it.
To say, “I’m not okay.”
To cry in the daylight.
To take meds,
See a shrink,
Open the wound,
and to not apologise for bleeding.

If you think this is heavy, good.
It’s fucking supposed to be.

Because someone you love
Is already counting the seconds.
And they don’t need a pep talk.
They need a world that listens 
Before the silence becomes permanent.