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

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

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

I turned 50 today,

Which means I’m halfway to 100.

I’m still arguing with my knees

About whose great idea it was

To chase my dreams barefoot on concrete.

---

I woke up this morning

With a wrinkle, I don’t remember meeting.

A grey hair in my beard that calls me ‘sir’,

And a back that negotiates before it bends.

But I woke up… and that, my friend,

Is poetry in itself.  

---

50 is not a finish line, it’s a flashlight

In the second act of the play.

A reminder that youth is a whisper.

And that wisdom is a megaphone made of memories

Of all those ‘almosts’ I survived. 

---

I’ve learnt that scars

Are simply tattoos with better stories.

That joy doesn’t always roar, 

Sometimes, it hums 

Like the laugh of someone who has seen the storm

And still dances in the drizzle.

---

I’ve buried dreams and planted new ones in their place

Watched time blur, like a Polaroid,

But I’m still here, heart thumping like a gospel drum

Voice steady like a bridge over breakage. 

---

See, 50 is not over, it’s open.

It’s the part of the novel where the protagonist 

Finally stops apologising and 

Hiding their light away.  

---

So here I am, 50 candles deep,

Each one a sun that dared to burn

A little longer and brighter than expected.

And I’m not done… Not even close

I’m just better at knowing when to rest,

And when to rise like thunder, with a purpose. 

---

Call me vintage.

Call me classic.

Call me middle aged.

Call me right on time with 

Who I have grown to become.

I’m Bob. Pleased to meet you. 

In some universe,

You never tripped over that heartbreak,

Never cried into your morning coffee.

In another,

You’re dancing in the rain, shirt open

Soaked to the bone, yet still smiling.

 

---

The multiverse is infinite.

Your problems aren’t.

They just feel like they’re everything

because right now,

they are.

---

But even this moment

has neighbors

where it’s already better.

(c)BobChristian

I once heard a voicemail,

A ghostly whisper through static.

My grandfather’s voice,

Heavy from the weight of hospital walls.

“Hey son,” he said,

“Thanks for stopping by that day,

It meant the world to me.“

His words rolled in like thunder,

Drowning out the sterile quiet of my room,

A storm of his pride,

The kind that wraps around you like a warm coat.

“You made me proud,” he continued,

“You’ve grown into someone

I always knew you could be.”

Time collapsed.

His words built bridges,

And I could see his smile

Like a lighthouse, cutting through the fog.

He spoke of moments

Captured in the soft click of a camera.

In the warmth of a hug.

In the bittersweet taste of goodbye.

“Keep remembering,” he urged,

Inviting me to linger

In the chapters of his stories;

The pages of our shared history.

The message ended.

But the silence felt heavier than absence,

And I clung to his words like a lifeline.

So here I stand in the shadow of his voice,

Knowing he listens.

As I hear the voice again,

I find reasons to believe

In the strength of a visit…

In the echo of love that never really dies.

(c)BobChristian2025

I stand here, 

My promise hanging in the air

Like a ghost. 

My words echoing in my mind 

“I’ll see you again, I promise.” 

But life has a way of rewriting our scripts, 

And I never got the chance to say 

Goodbye.

 

You were the man 

Who taught me the art of stories.

Who could weave magic with paint.

Your laughter a warm blanket 

On cold winter nights, and now…

There’s an empty chair at the table.

An absence that feels like a weight 

That I can’t shake.

 

I thought we had time.

I thought there would be more moments.

More days filled with your wisdom.

But time slipped through my fingers, 

Like sand; like your last breath 

I never got to witness.

And I’m left here, clinging to memories 

That feel too fragile to hold.

 

The hurt wraps around me, 

A heavy cloak of guilt, 

Because I promised you, 

And I wonder if you heard me?

If you knew I meant it.

If you felt my heart breaking from a distance.

If you smiled that knowing smile 

And whispered, “It’s okay.”

 

But what if it’s not okay? 

What if the weight of my absence 

Is something you carry, too? 

What if the silence between us 

Is filled with unspoken words?

With the “I love yous” 

That got lost in the shuffle of life?

 

I’m haunted by the doubt, 

The what-ifs that circle like vultures:

What if I had been there? 

What if I had made that call? 

What if I had held your hand 

Just one more time 

And whispered all the things 

That now hang heavy in my chest?

 

But deep down, 

I know you’d forgive me. 

You always did. 

You were a man of grace, 

A wellspring of understanding, 

And I can almost hear your voice, 

Soft and steady, saying, 

“Don’t carry that burden, let it go son.”

 

It’s hard to let it go, grandad.

It’s hard to release the guilt.

To accept that life is unpredictable;

That love doesn’t always come with guarantees.

But I carry you with me.

In every laugh, 

In every tear, and in every moment

I feel the weight of your absence.

 

I remember you, 

And I find comfort in the thought 

That you’re watching, 

That you’re still here, 

In the spaces between breaths, 

In the love I give,

In the stories I tell, 

In your name.

 

So I’ll carry you with me, 

Not as a weight, but as a reminder 

That promises might falter, 

But love endures.

That forgiveness is a gift we give ourselves, 

And that one day, when the time is right, 

I’ll see you again.

Not as a ghost, but as a part of everything I’ve become.

(c)BobChristian2020

A while ago I told you that I’d entered a competition being held by the Dark Poets Club. I was very pleased to be given an honourable mention and publication on social media by them.

It’s a piece called “Eternal Garden of Shadows”, which is from a collection of pieces that I’ve called “Life of Shadows“.

These are some my darker scribbles, and this particular piece is very dark… it contains references to violence, torture and murder, which some people will find distressing. Please be aware of this.

Eternal Garden of Shadows

Forty years, an eternity carved into flesh,

Each second a ghost haunting the corners of my mind.
In the mirror, I see the boy who never was,
Eyes hollowed, innocence gutted by your hands.

The old white farmhouse, its paint faded,
A tombstone for a childhood lost.
You, a spectre of rot and decay,
The monster I vowed to unearth.

Your voice, a sickening melody,
Tries to weave webs of pity and remorse.
But I am no longer that broken child,
I am vengeance personified; relentless; unyielding.

Dragging you through the threshold,
The air thick with memories of screams,
Your body, frail and trembling,
The fear in your eyes gives a dark satisfaction.

Each blow, a symphony of bone and blood,
Your flesh a canvas for my rage.
You convulse, a marionette on frayed strings,
Every scream a note in the requiem of your sins.

In the barn, tools of torment rusted by time,
I find new purpose, each blade a deliverance.
I carve your guilt into your skin,
Every cut a ledger of pain unpaid.

You beg, a pitiful creature,
Words slurred through shattered teeth.
But mercy died with my innocence,
And I am the hollow echo of your cruelty.

Dragging you to the garden,
The earth cold, unfeeling, like my heart.
The shovel, heavy with intent,
Tears into the ground, a grave yawning open.

Your pleas – desperate, animalistic,
Fall on ears deafened by torment.
Buried alive, the soil swallowing your terror,
Hands clawing the earth, your futile grasp at salvation.

In the silence, I hear your muffled screams,
A symphony of suffering, eternal.
The flowers above, nourished by your decay,
Bloom in grotesque irony; beauty born from horror.

The farmhouse remains a monument to retribution,
Its silence a testament to justice served.
Forty years of shadows dispelled by your cries,
Now buried in the garden, your purgatory. My peace.

(C)BobChristianpoetry