Soupy green sky

Sullen grey hills

Spare me your stories

I resist your foreign wills.

Nasty dark and scarlet blue

Their tears come from your pipe

You condescend like golden palms

And make the rich man gripe.

Tell me what I can give

To you. Violet peach or grey

Take my mouldy soul from me

Come again no other day.

Stand on pedestals of pearl

In halls of marble white

Crush them with your saddened stares

And kill them with your spite.

Write and sing and paint away

Nightmares bright and bold

’til free I am from vengeful grasp

My rights again to hold.

Task: conduct a thorough analysis of this poem and discuss how the poet uses literary devices to support the following message: ‘Analysis ruins poetry and forces people to overthink it in ways that it was never intended to be thought about.’


Mind Leak – written 14/06/15

The perforation, seemingly insignificant at first, began to ooze thick black sludge peppered with shining silver typewriter keys and random pockets of text. The seep of goo grew into a gushing stream which further widened the gap. The avalanche of thought spilled onto the ground, devouring dirt and grass in its path. Small creatures of the forest, caught unawares by the determined onslaught, struggled to keep their tiny heads above the surface as they sent distressed cries into the air, but the black mud continued to cascade from the gash, ignorant and uncaring of the suffering it caused. Words floated to the surface, gradually integrating to create a logical chain:

Blood is coloured like a rose

Thoughts are coloured with the ink of prose

Organs keep a body alive

But without a spirit, it cannot survive

The words sank into the mire with triumphant finality. The flow of tar slowed, and stopped, leaving a grey, lifeless body, sprawled in the grass surrounded by a pool of black and silver, illuminated in patches by the light filtering through a forest canopy.

Humanity’s defining search

Once upon a time there was a class of geography students. They all existed in a space which was commonly known as a classroom, with an approximate size of 6 by 7 metres, making it about 42 square metres.

However, the fact that they existed is highly debatable. Did they exist because they had physical matter and mass? In that case, do dead people still exist? Or did they exist rather because they were aware of their own existence? In that case, are humans the only things that exist?

How do I know anything else exists apart from me? I mean, people tell me that they have thoughts and whatnot, but how do I know that they’re telling the truth? How do I know they’re not figments of my imagination? If they are, does it really make a difference? If everything in the universe is a figment of my imagination, is it really any different? Do I even exist? Is me doubting my own existence a sign that I do? Maybe I’m just a figment of someone else’s imagination? If I am, does it really make a difference?

Maybe we’re all just an imaginary story thought up by some incompetent immortal 3rd grader for their weird little assignment that they’ll probably fail. Maybe we are an abandoned video game in an alternate universe.

Maybe not.

Maybe one day I’ll die and my entire experience, decades of memories, emotions and relationships, will become obsolete and forgotten. Maybe when I die some deity will collect my life and place it into their filing cabinet, one grey papery folder in a sea of billions, just sitting there collecting dust for all eternity. Maybe when I die an angel will swoop down, pluck my consciousness out of the ground like a precious gem and take it home and shine it up, delicately placing it on their crystalline mantlepiece to be admired.

Maybe not.

Maybe everything known to man is merely an atom in an unimaginably huge being which goes about its business unaware of the drama, death and disaster occurring in minute scale within its own body. Maybe we are unimaginably huge beings, and there are entire universes just as complex as our own housed within our atoms. Maybe it’s an endless spiral, with universes in atoms in universes in atoms in universes in atoms in universes in atoms. Incomprehensively large and incomprehensively small.

Maybe not.

Maybe the entirety of human existence is nothing. Maybe it’s everything. Maybe nothing I do matters. Maybe every minute action, every tiny choice and movement, every piece of rice I choose to eat and every step I choose to take, changes everything.

Maybe not.

Maybe every decision, action and event in the history of the universe was inevitable, a combination of circumstance, space and time that would never have been any other way. Maybe the whole idea of a multiverse filled with universes of stuff in every possible configuration is ridiculous, because ever since the start there’s only been one possible outcome, which is the one we’re in now. Maybe that’s because someone, or something, is out there, engineering everything to be how it is.

Maybe not.

Maybe with every millisecond, every action someone chooses to make or not make, a billion different universes will fracture off like shards of glass, shining like the infinite different wavelengths of light.

Maybe not.

Maybe this existential crisis has gone on for too long. Maybe it’s time to stop.

Maybe in another universe I continue writing this until I have precisely 3004 words and then it becomes the most famous literary work in human history, and then people wonder what would’ve happened if I’d stopped.

Not this universe though.

The dreams of a photocopier

Written by Mackenzie (11 year old sister)

I am a photocopier

I am forced to stay

Copying pages day after day

I am a photocopier

I wish I could leave

And do what I want instead of being a slave

You feed me paper

I spit it out

I wish I could run, jump and shout

But sadly for me

That cannot be true

Stuck here in the library with nothing to do

Deceit’s Handmaidens

Lead them on.

Weave an elaborate tapestry of sugary lies and sickly sweet deception.

Talk and tell and teach until they are tangled in the multicoloured web of strands.




Captivate then with your fantasies.

Entertain them with your lies.

Distract them with your alluring charm while you tighten your grasp.

Lock them, cage them, bind them, gag them.

Throw them into the inky black depths.

Hold their heads under the water.

And watch as they drown.



Words in my mouth

Words in my ears

Words in my mind.

Words, words, words.

Words drowning me in a violent tsunami

Words filling my head like buzzing flies

Words telling me to do this, do that, be this, be that.


Words like a balm

Words calming, relaxing, soothing

Words giving expression to emotion

Words giving image to experience

Words giving support to the lonely, outpouring to the distressed, ways to the lost.

Words are our curse

Words are our cure.

Words have given humanity its strength

Words have divided us, cut us down and brought us to our knees.

Words are love

Words are hate

Words are power.


Best of Both Worlds

Some people live in two worlds

As children, others look at them and label their difference

“You’re crazy”


“Talking to yourself”

As adults, many learn to hide their dual citizenship

They no longer lip sync to the songs in their minds

They cease to act out their imaginary activities

They join the crowd

“You’re crazy”


“Talking to yourself”

They persuade themselves that it is a curse

Not a gift

A hindrance

Not a help

They give in to the world’s foolish ideals of sanity

But some don’t

They thrive in a life where merely a glance transforms the ordinary into something extraordinary

They paint their grey-scale realities in technicolour glory

Their ears hear the melodies of angels

Their eyes see oceans of stars

Sure, they might get some strange glances

Or some condescending words

But it’s a small price to pay to live in a utopia of your own creation.

Don’t you think?