This piece was originally written for the Dark Poets competition III where it went on to achieve a shortlist. It’s an incredibly personal scribble, but my dark poetry is like that; I guess it’s a form of therapy. (Since then it’s been featured in a number of other publications.)

“Hello Old Friend”

I’ve met you in hospital rooms,  
Where the air hums with the rhythm of machines,  
And the fluorescent lights paint shadows  
On walls that remember every whispered goodbye.  
You sat in the corner,  
Silent,  
Patient,  
While I tried to bargain breaths for a chance at life.

I’ve seen you in the rear view mirror,  
A flash of headlights on rain soaked roads,  
The roar of a motorcycle cutting through the night,  
Your touch like a lover’s whisper,  
Close enough to feel the chill,  
Yet distant,  
Like a promise not yet fulfilled.

We’ve danced in the space between heartbeats,  
In the pause where life hesitates,  
Waiting for the next pulse,  
The next inhale,  
The next moment that says,  
Not today.

You are the stranger at the end of the bar,  
The familiar face in the crowd,  
The one who knows my stories without words,  
Who nods in understanding,  
As if to say,  
I’ve been here before.

So when you came to my door,  
With your suitcase of silence,  
I was not afraid.  
I opened it wide,  
And welcomed you in,  
Like an old friend returning,  
After years of wandering.

We sat together,  
In a room that held memories like stars,  
In the quiet where breaths become echoes,  
And I knew,  
This was not an ending,  
But the echo of an embrace  
That had waited lifetimes to be felt.

(c)BobChristian2022

Love isn’t a highlight reel, 

Or snapshots of sunsets and brunches, 

Not the perfectly staged, ‘spontaneous’ moments  

With hashtags like #SoBlessed, #LivingMyBestLife

As if happiness can be filtered.

As if joy can be photoshopped. 

It’s the messy, gritty reality.  

The late-night debates 

That spiral into arguments.  

Where voices rise and hearts race.  

Two souls colliding in a storm  

Of passion and frustration. 

Fighting over small things,  

Like who forgot to take out the bin  

Or the way the towels were left. 

It’s in those moments, 

When tempers flare and words cut deep,  

That I feel the heat of our differences.

The tension that reminds me  

We are alive. We are human.  

Love is not a made-for-Disney fairytale,

It’s a battlefield

Where we lay our armour down  

To confront the truth of ourselves.

It’s in the silence that follows.  

That heavy air between us,  

When I realise that beneath the anger, 

The hurt, and the misunderstandings,

There’s a truth that holds us together.  

A core so solid it could withstand the fiercest storm.

And at my very core, in the atoms that make me, 

I truly love you, beautiful.

Not just when we’re laughing,  

But especially when the world feels heavy.  

When our perspectives clash,  

And we’re left sifting through the rubble.

Because that’s when we grow,  

When we dig deeper than before. 

And find the roots of our connection.

Love is not a hashtag. 

It’s a commitment to stay,  

To fight through the noise,  

To embrace the chaos,  

Emerging on the other side

Holding hands, hearts open,

Knowing that every argument  

Is just another step 

On this winding path we walk together. 

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  

Because in the end,

It’s all part of the beautiful mess  

That is you and me.

That is our love. 

And it is ours forever.

(c)BobChristian

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.

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

We used to pass flyers.

Now, we pass tweets.

Used to march down avenues,

Now we march through algorithms,

Dodging shadowbans like tear gas.

Do not call this Slacktivism.

There’s a difference between

Performing and platforming.

Between the click

And the consequence.

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.

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.

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,

I’m looking for you.

The you who might see your struggle reflected

And someone else else’s bruise.

For you, who has forgotten that solidarity

Starts with listening.

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.

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

That’s resistance,

With a Wi-Fi connection.

(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.

You see, I navigate the world like a cat in a dog park, 

With a GPS that only knows the route to my comfort zone.

Conversations are like trying to solve a Rubiks cube

While riding a rollercoaster;

Colourful, chaotic, and I’m holding on for dear life.

People say: “Just look me in the eye”

But my gaze is like a rare Pokémon…

Elusive and often hiding under the couch.

I prefer the depth of my own thoughts,

Where every idea is a universe spinning in its own orbit.

Don’t get me started on small talk.

It’s like trying to swim in a pool full of jelly.

“Nice weather today. So where are you from?”

My brain shouts: “Did you know octopuses have three hearts?”

But I nod, smile and do my best to reply. 

My mind is a playlist on shuffle.

Tunes bounce from Mozart to Metallica

While everyone else grooves to the latest pop hit. 

And I’m just here. Watching. 

Dancing to my own beat.

Social gatherings are like a game of hide and seek

Where I’m hiding in the snack corner,

Perfecting the art of avoiding eye contact.

Concentrating on munching crisps

As if they hold the secrets to the universe.

I might not always get the punchline

But when I do, it’s like fireworks

Exploding wildly on New Year’s Eve…

Unexpected, and a bit overwhelming

But oh so beautiful in its own way.

So, here’s to the quirks; the unique rhythm;

The moments when I’m too loud. Too quiet. Too much.

Because being me is not a puzzle to solve,

It’s an art form… a masterpiece in progress,

And I’m learning to paint it in the colours of my soul.

(c)BobChristian

I’d like to take a moment, if I can, to say thank you…

To those of you that take the time to visit my website. I’m genuinely blown away every month, when I see just how many people are going there to read my scribbles, and to see that you’re from all over the world. It’s amazing for me to think of that… and it’s always appreciated.

Thank you, once again. xxxxx

Some problems
Are like stones in your pocket.
You’ve carried them so long,
They’ve started to feel like lint.
Familiar. Small. Permanent.
But just because something feels like home
Doesn’t mean it’s not hurting you.

Sometimes,
Healing starts with a question
Asked at 3am, in a whisper:
“Why am I still holding this?“
And maybe your hands don’t answer,
But they tremble.
And that’s enough.

So you reach in,
Past all the excuses,
The “This is just how I am,”
The “It wasn’t that heavy”
And you pull it out
A wound masquerading as a memory,
A bruise dressed like a trophy.

You stare at it.
And it stares back.
And without ceremony,
Without applause,
You let it go;
Let it fall.
Let gravity do what your heart couldn’t;
Let the silence stay: Finally.

Because you…
You were never made to drown
In your own chapters.
You were meant to surface,
To rewrite the ending,
To turn the pain into poetry,
And the weight into air.

And if there’s no applause?
Let the earth do it for you,
With every thud of something
You no longer need to carry. 

(c)BobChristian