These Words Aren't Weapons

Robert Jepson, 25, UK. Unpretentious Poetry.

A soft wind blew around us
carrying snowflakes
gentle, soft but cold
ice cold.
A perfect sadness.
A perfect stage.
A perfect goodbye.
'goodbye my love'
'remember the summer'

Working overtime
to stay one step head
but I haven’t life now
and no poems to be read.
I’ll emerge again
with words I have written
and say hello to you all
from here in Great Britain. 

Stop using the word beauty
when you mean attractive
beauty is more
than way we look
beauty is more
than who we want to fuck.
Beauty is anyone
who loves selflessly
you’re using the word beauty
so selfishly.

They get thrown in a cell
they get a telling off
and all they do is laugh it off.
Let them come and arrest us
the police are only justice jesters.

What am I
apart from old dreams
and even older cliches.
What hope do you have
when you’re not living
just existing.
Without the sun
flowers perish
but a human without a life
can keep going.
My existence is vile
but I’m living bile
so I keep existing
incarcerated by
these chemicals

I take pride
they take advantage.

It struck me down
on my day off
sod’s law
for a sucker
who works with
his nose to
the grindstone. 

Your happiness is infectious, so smile.

History History History History

17. April 2014

It’s not a mystery.
We’ve failed history.
Nothing’s changed.
The history of war
is still written by the victors
still written in blood
whilst innocent people
lay in the mud.
It’s still recited
to the same war drums
by the same politicians
who recited those
declarations of war.
Never retreating.
Just repeating. 


The venom seeped into my blood.
As I lay face down in mud.
My limbs locked.
My brain shocked.
The light came to find me.
My struggle defined me.


She sat her children down
and on a cold and grey
autumn day.
She had to explain that
Grandad had passed away.
What to say? What to say?
Grandad had gone away
to a better place
to heaven
but he’d always be
watching over them.
Maybe that’s not true
I don’t believe myself
but what I wonderful lie to tell.


They kept the haircut
but they traded in the spirit
for a full time job and a
5 door car that they can 
wash every weekend.
Like clockwork.
Yet they look down at me
because I don’t have the look
but I’ve got the spirit


Pens and papers
piled like skyscrapers.
Typewriters submerged
in a puddle of ink that
pours from a water cooler.
A forest of office chairs
swivel in the wind.
A bureaucratic landscape.
Filed forms.


The fountain of youth
is found under
the florescent lights
of a surgeons office.
Iðunn apples have
become botox needles.
Our pick of the poisons
to put in our face.
To be a perfect member 
of an imperfect race.


What little I have to give
except my heart.
I wonder what it’s worth
it’s bruised and battered.
It’s been stuck together with
sellotape and superglue.
I’ve seen hearts 
both in better condition
and burnt out
but just like
beauty is in the eye
of the beholder
so is the value of 
your heart.