By Bob W Christian
You said
it was me who
Hammered the final
Nail into this coffin.
Our relationship had
Finally been declared
Dead and buried.
I’m six feet under; laid
To rest; turned to ash.
Just like our friendship.
Scattered on the winds
Of change. You said I’m
Dead to you now.
It’s too late for you
To do the right thing,
Tell everyone the truth.
That it was, in fact, you
Who said these things,
All the while blaming me.
(c)BobChristianpoetry
By Bob W Christian
While walking in the forest
Surrounded by nature,
I gazed upon your face.
Those eyes, so green
Like the plants dancing.
Yours is the unseen
Breath, swaying leaves are
Fields of rippling skin.
Your golden sunshine
Warming. Creating life,
Bringing such brightest
Blessings to each and
Every season in this,
Our most hallowed place.
(c)BobChristianpoetry
Last night I sat down with Dog and he asked me to share his thoughts with you…
Dear Hoomum.
Thank you for my house,
Taking time to throw my
Mouse.
For taking me on your
Walks, all our little daily
Talks.
All those snuggles, naps
We share, sorry about all the
Hair.
Thank you for the food you
Bring, thank you mum for
Everything.
(C)BobChristianpoetry
(C)SheldonTiberius
By Bob Christian
Mother
My mother has something about her.
By day, a sense of dedication
She worked hard to provide a happy home.
By night, she desperately tried to keep a vicious
Monster hidden from her children’s tender eyes.
She would always tell us not to worry.
Working two jobs to provide for us,
When our father wouldn’t. This was the woman
Who loved me, even when I couldn’t love myself.
She carried my burdens for me.
Now I’m fully grown, and I know how hard
It is to parent two children well, I’m even more
In awe of her. She sometimes talks so much,
I wonder how she can breathe.
But I’m just grateful I can still hear her.
(C) BobChristianpoetry2021
The greatest trick this devil ever pulled
wasn’t smoke, wasn’t mirrors—
it was the algorithm.
It was teaching you to doubt your own pulse.
Convincing you the fire alarm is just
background noise.
Convincing you the cage is a corner office
with a flattering filter.
Perception becomes policy.
Policy becomes posture.
Posture becomes prayer.
And suddenly
up is a rumor,
down is a conspiracy,
and truth is a freelance contractor
waiting on late payment.
We scroll past the smoke.
We double-tap the collapse.
We outsource our outrage
to a headline written in disappearing ink.
No one stops to ask
why the air tastes metallic.
No one wants to inventory
an unpleasant existence—
it’s easier to binge another distraction,
another blue-lit anesthesia
dripping from the ceiling of the feed.
Facts grow thinner.
So thin they’re transparent.
So transparent they pass through bone
without resistance.
You blink—
and the blink is curated.
You blink—
and the world has been gently rearranged
like furniture in a house you swear you know.
They call it perspective.
They call it balance.
They call it both sides.
But it feels like standing in a funhouse
where every mirror insists
you are the distortion.
And somewhere, softly—
almost kindly—
a voice says:
Don’t think too hard.
Don’t look too long.
This is normal.
This is fine.
This is freedom.
We repeat it
because repetition feels like stability.
We repeat it
until the echo sounds like evidence.
So tell me—
When the ground shifts
and the headlines applaud,
when the lie wears a flag
and the truth wears fatigue,
is it all fake news—
or did we just forget
how to see?
(c)BobChristianpoetry
By Bob W Christian
Please don’t worry, this isn’t written about me, it’s about a close family member.
My morning coffee.
Unlike me, is strong.
I say morning, actually
It’s when I come round.
After another of those,
Unforgettable nights.
I just can’t remember.
Strength, something
I lost years ago. Now
A way of measuring.
How much solution,
Is poured out. While
Revisiting the regrets.
In this endless story.
I’ve told anyone who’d
Listen. While continually
Poisoning myself, slowly,
Desperately. Fighting the
Inevitable. One last shot,
To stop my life, becoming
A sad statistic of addiction.
(c)BobChristianpoetry
by Bob W Christian
So many memories left here.
Photos – a snapshot of you.
Pieces of paper, scattered.
Your essence lingering on,
Haunting this old house.
Reading your scribbled words:
Always thought this moment
Would come without warning.
Waiting for the right time could
Take forever, you see.
We both know it’s been coming
For a while now. It’s not you, it’s
Me. It’s kept me awake trying to
Tell you. I’ve been scared for a
Long, long time now.
I can’t understand how we can
Forgive each other, for words not
Spoken until it’s too late, while trying
To move forward with our lives.
What would Social Media say?
How can someone be around one
Minute, then disappear? How do I
Cope with the disappointment of all
The things I didn’t accomplish?
It‘s best I go. All my love always.
The end, then? Or a beginning?
A whole new chapter in your life?
Left, wondering. Searching for
Clues. Will I ever know
The end of your story?
(c)BobChristianpoetry
By Bob W Christian
If this place could talk,
The stories it would tell!
Trapped within these
Walls for their eternity,
Gliding along corridors.
Pictures gathering dust,
Snapshots of the past.
This gallery of memories,
Life frozen, doomed to be
Repeated on an endless loop.
Voices call to me from
Empty rooms. Ghostly
Echoes from the past.
Whispers from beyond
My reality, now falling silent.
Memories, emotions,
Regrets. Forever
Haunting me.
(c)BobChristianpoetry
By Bob W Christian
Here we are again.
You.
Me.
The silence between us loud enough to rupture my ribs.
I call you companion because calling you monster
feels like admitting defeat.
Feels like saying you win.
Again.
Again.
Again.
You’ve given me so many nightmares,
I should be charging rent for all the nights you’ve made a home in my head.
I wake up sweating through the sheets
like maybe if I soak them enough, you’ll drown in the flood.
Spoiler alert:
You don’t.
Your memories play on loop in my skull,
like a cursed mixtape I never asked for.
And every time I press eject,
you just laugh
and rewind.
I thought I’d outgrow you.
Like acne.
Like imaginary friends.
Like bedtime fears and monsters under the bed.
But instead, you crawled into the bed.
Under my skin.
Built a goddamn shrine in my mind and lit candles for every time I tried to forget.
Aren’t I supposed to be a grown-up now?
Aren’t I supposed to be brave?
Aren’t I supposed to know how to lock the door to my own brain?
Because that’s where you live.
That’s when you thrive
when I’m alone
inside my own skull.
You’ve haunted me like clockwork,
never missing a season,
never skipping a visit.
We’ve grown up together, side-by-side.
Not friends.
More like…
cellmates.
I’ve tried evicting you.
Kicking you out.
Burning the lease.
But you always come back,
like a cockroach in winter,
like bad WiFi,
like me.
Still you’re my oldest companion. I’ve tried
Staying awake, hoping you’d sleep before me.
Tried drowning you – you’ve learnt to swim.
Always awaiting your return now.
I guess
this is what forever feels like
when you don’t get to choose who stays.
(c)BobChristianpoetry
By Bob W Christian
I remember the day that
Time, like your life,
Stopped. Your body,
Laid out like your
Obituary.
Paragraphs of your
Life for all to read.
Documenting the lies
The excuses, the games,
Played.
Hide and seek champ
37 years running
Away. Stretching
Truths, ducking all
Responsibilities.
When it’s my time,
I’ll can rest in peace
knowing, I may be no
angel. Still, I’m nothing
Like you.
(c) BobChristianpoetry
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 