THE STORY BEHIND THE WORK
Three books.
One journey.
I lost my partner. I raised my children alone through grief I didn't fully understand. I carried rage and shame alongside love, and for a long time I carried it all in silence — because that is what I believed men were supposed to do.
Writing became the place where I could finally be honest. These poems were written in the middle of the night, on school runs, in therapy waiting rooms, on long drives where the radio was on but the mind was somewhere else entirely.
They are not about performing strength. They are about what happens when the performance ends — and who you find yourself to be in the quiet that follows.
From Not All Pain Screams
The house
changes
when they sleep.
TV on.
Mobile in hand.
Lights dim.
Dishes done.
Except —
I sit
remembering.
I wake
on the sofa —
eyes
wet.
Evenings — Book One
"Not all pain screams.
Sometimes it simply waits
for us to listen."
THE NOT ALL PAIN SCREAMS TRILOGY
Three books.
One complete arc.
BOOK ONE
Not ALL Pain Screams
Poems on Grief, Fatherhood, and Carrying On
The quiet aftermath of loss. A man learning to parent alone, to carry the weight, to breathe again. 116 poems across three collections — grief, fatherhood, and the slow return of warmth.
BOOK TWO
Seen
Poems on Anxiety, Identity, and Learning to Be Known
The noise inside the mind. The masks worn for years. The extraordinary ordinary experience of finally letting someone see who you really are. 124 poems across three collections.
BOOK THREE
One Sky
Poems on Nature, Connection, and Finding Your Way Back
The zoom out. Nature, time, perspective, and the realisation that every person walking this earth is travelling beneath the same sky. 115 poems across three collections.
FROM THE TRILOGY
Words that live
where felling does
The School Form — Book One
Documents
for the school
to complete.
Names.
Addresses.
Contacts.
Until —
Mother's name.
An ache.
The pen
floats
hesitating.
An ordinary task
that suddenly
isn't.
White Heat — Book One
I wanted
to set the world
on fire.
Rage —
pure,
white-hot
rage.
She left me.
I know —
it wasn't her choice.
But a part of me,
ashamed,
felt
left behind.