I Am Who You Made Me

I am who you made me

I taste my grandmothers’ breath in the roof of my mouth
smell it on the back of my tongue,
unable to get her bitter after taste out of me,
she breathes through me,
I stroke her kink in my hair,
that my mother despised in me
because they recognized in me
their DNA laced into my flesh combined with me
untamed without direction,
I avoid my fathers eyes in the mirror of fury,
his reflection
stares back at me in my pool of blood
and I drink my tears in gallons of starry bruised night skies,
I eat his eyes for breakfast
hold his dead flesh in my stomach for lunch,
drink his poisonous misguided lessons for tea,
feast on his regret for dinner
by which time I don’t have space for dessert,
but greed makes me nibble on his memories, and question what I deserve,
and though I eat 3 square meals my hunger for love remains insatiated,
I try to let go of my need to be appreciated,
but its too late now,
I’m too old now,
I should be chasing gold now,
have a family of my own now,
I should stop gnawing on this bone now...

Justice Lyric

Looking-Glass

Looking-Glass

Black snakes ripple the surface of murky green waters
Thoughts cross faces like chessboard laces
Interlaced with alcohol induced memories of fading into blackouts,
Backed into alleys leading to the crack-house
Casting shadows on souls once made of light
Now darkened by cravings for impossibilities
Consciousness drifting on infinities
Dreams hovering in vacuum timed spaces
Hearts race to quickened footsteps taking them to their fates
Unable to shift the weight of broken promises
The symbolisms of dreams fall on crushed spirits
Ageless desires burn unequivocally
As dawn breaks lilac to the fleshy pink grapefruit of a re-awakening
And the familiar sound of traffic rumbling
seeps through to accompany the stumbling
Before the harsh light from a bare bulb forces us to acknowledge
the reality of what we face in the mirror...

Justice Lyric

Poetry Is...

Poetry Is…
Wearing your mother’s clothes because
At that age no one defines beauty more than her.
It’s the first time you realise parents are just humans
And prone to making mistakes.
Poetry is loving just for the sake of it.
Unrequited love. Only confessed to empty rooms at night.
It’s 70’s blaxploitation films. All pomp and swagger.
Poetry is placing your hands in a cold stream of tap water
When the days heat up because the sun is back from hiatus.
It is the string of thoughts in my head
Begging to be immortalised on paper.
It’s all the poems ever written about what poetry is.
What the Oxford English defines it as.
Incessant faith in a higher force is poetry.
It lies in the crevices of excited conversations
Of Black women sharing hair care tips.
It is my memories of back home. Blurred and selective.
It is a hot shower after a 10 hour shift
Spent getting harassed by Essex girls
Who wear orange minstrel faces.
It’s hating someone and not knowing why.
Hip Hop, Jazz and Blues.
Poetry is,
Being hungry and broke at the same time.
Arriving home to find mum has cooked instead of dad.
It is how everything I find endearing reminds me of you.
Sleeping in your bed. Our arguments.
It is kissing someone and enjoying it.
A genuine smile that lingers.
Poetry lies in a well faked smile.
Bingeing on borrowed boxsets of The Wire.
Clocking the tag line at the beginning
And laughing at the joke because you get it.
It is big, warm hugs where you stop smelling
Anything but the other person’s scent.
Knowing someone is truly your friend.
Poetry is crying for hours till you feel happy again.
Funerals. The mystery of death.
It is eating smuggled food. It tastes better
Because it’s seasoned with deceit.
It is how the universe sprang into existence.
Poetry is,
Sleep and the world beyond the conscious mind.
Defined by infinity. It lives longer than time.

KNACKERED

Lunchbreak.
He rises from his seat and walks away from his desk
heading out the office he avoids the lifts and taks the steps
Existing the building turning right
All the shops, cafe's, cash machine and pub, are on the left

A 5 minute walk to the park he finds a bench.
He takes his book Out of his bag and begins to write.
When he's not writing he recites.
Pacing up and down the perimiter of the park trying to get his words right.
He repeats this 5 days a week.
Monday to Friday.
Day in.
Day out.

He doesnt think he's better than anyone else.
He doesn't thnik he's special.
He's got nothing aaginst his collegues.
He likes them.
he envys them.
What he does think,
is that he doesnt expect them to undetstand.
Is that bad?

Not that there's anything wrong in...........

You know what?

This is bollox.

Treading over old ground.
Repeatedley.
Again,
and again.

I've been here.
Done this before.
On the same park bench.
2 years ago.
A thousand times.
Where's it going?

Ok.
I finally got to meet some really inspireing people.
Even made a few moves.
I feel like it's pushed me on.
A lot.
A hell of a lot,
and I'm gratefull.
Honestly.
Now though,
after a lot of post work grinding.
5 days a week.
Day in.
Day out.
The adrenline's gone.
The ideas have gone.
The spark has gone.
I'm completley knackered.

I'm still sitting on the same bench.
Writing the same tired self obsessed crap.
When I return back to my desk.
I know I've got a shit load of stuff to do.
I've fallen behind.
Again.
This time I don't have the energy.
The patience is gone.

All I'm left with is me.
My job.
Judgeing by the emails I get most days about stats
I'm edging ever closer to the sack.
The flat.
I don't even know who i'm living with now.
the revolving door policy has seen me live with 9 peoplle in 3 months,
at the last count.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

If I make myself I'll,
then at least I tried.

Sometimes I just wish I was normal

NOTE TO SELF

NOTE TO SELF

I left home to build a home that I can call my own
Devouring time I worry about money that I've blown
Booze, weed, clothes, food
Unessesary sun holidays sold on the promise of hordes of women,
when all i ever got was sun burn, food poisening and flashing cigarette lighters,
from a deaf, dumb and blind mute,
whilst eating some greasy English food,
I swear that dood could see

Home aint home anymore
Home belongs to Mum and Dad
they broke the bank and bust a gut to pay for that,
and it's theirs.
Proud owners and rightly so

Yea I've got a gaff but it's not home.
It's a bed to sleep, shower and a place to wash my clothes.
Occasionly I might cook something.
The flat isn't mine though.

I don't mind working 9 to 5,
then utlizing my time outside.
Well i do mind,
but I accept it's what I've gotta do.
The world owes me nothing.
I wanted to start something,
so i had to choose.

Feel numb or be someone.
Feeling numb is what I know.
Tring to be someone?
I've tried with a half commited heart,
and got a sore arse from sitting on the fence
I might as well give it a go - properely.

If I can be someone and make something out of myself,
then I can lay the foundation stone.
Start collecting the bricks and mortor.

Ever since I left home,
I've struggled to keep my head above the water so occasionly I lose hope.

Every now again life throws a new character.
Several if your lucky
I'm lucky.
One word or gesture with a nature of positivity,
can restore or unleash self beleif you never knew was there.
If you don't have hope, you won't get anywhere.
Sometimes hope's all you got.

If everything was easy then there would be no such thing as acheivement.

I've got to belive in what I'm tryiing to acheive.
Right now I'm talking like I've got my head firmely wedged in my arse,
so intravert I've become a collapsed star.

On occasion I need convincing of my own little missionn.
This is my reminder.
It's good for you to see.

I'm not trying to pluck a sympathy string,
I just want you to recognise the chord,
cos you might be me.
I know you can loose the faith and feel ignored.

My Lover

This drug has blackened
My insides.
Yet I'll not give it up,
Not for a while.
It makes me feel pretty.

This is not supposed to be therapy

This is not supposed to be therapy

I go to therapy on Wednesdays

Being on stage is my getaway

Or hitting the dance floor on a Saturday

I try to stay home on Sundays

Cos if I'm lucky mum will make Sunday lunch

Roast chicken and potatoes, rice and peas

"And, mummy? Don't forget the plantain!"

Yes, I know she spoils me


I’m supposed to be happy

Because most would be if they were this lucky

I’m supposed to be the one “living his dreams”

The one that they envy and aspire be like

I’m supposed to in-spire but I cry out

I’m supposed to give hope but I'm so full of doubt


I’m supposed to know exactly what I’m doing

And precisely where I’m going

Because I am a leader... right?


I’m supposed to have the answer

Or at least ask the right questions

I’m supposed to be cruising in the fast lane

But I feel so pedestrian


He gave me this notebook to write in

I’m not supposed to tell anyone

But fuck what I’m supposed to do


I’ve always done what I’m supposed to

I was supposed to get my GCSEs, A Levels and a degree

Check one, check two and, yes, check three

A whole bunch of Bs and Cs and a 2:1 in my degree

English and Philosophy

What else was I equipped to be but some kinda writer

Well I'm pretty good with kids I coulda been a teacher

But even my favourite at school, Mr Rattigan, told me

“Never...! ever...! become a teacher. You can do more"


My granddad always asks me

“When you gonna go back to your studies?”

He tells our family back in Cyprus that I’m a professor

Dr Dean Atta

But I'm far from a Dr

My only PHD a Player Hating Degree

But I don't stay put long enough for you to hate on me

I'm a Poet slash Playwright slash Producer

Slash Artistic Associate slash Creative Director

Slash confused dot com

Online searching for my ID

On Facebook faking familiarity

RT @you #completeme

BBM me, B-befriend me

This iPhone is not my phone it's a loan of identity

See I can be whatever and whoever I want to be

With the right accessory, by any app necessary


I’m supposed to be grateful for all this freedom

Free to grab opportunities when I see them

Because some let things pass them by

Fixated on money

Trapped by responsibility

Or bound by their apathy

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond imagination.”

I believed that first time I heard it and I

Still do

But am I supposed to be afraid?

Cos I’m not


I don’t need words from page to reach out and hug me

Comfort me or tell me that they love me

I just need them to tell the truth

Cos I'm supposed to be here

And I'm supposed to do this

And, no, this isn't therapy...

But it sure feels good to me

To be sharing this, with you.