Stop with your incessant,
dull thumps that slam against
the interior of my weakened skull.

Just, please,
put an end to it all.
I beg of you.

I have enough on my mind
without you hammering away at it
like a carpenter with an
abundance of nails.

There’s a lot I need to think about,
you pestering, thumping-obsessed bastard,
so, honestly, I could do without
you pounding away at my brain, for starters.

My frontal lobe;
you should know where that is,
is full of what I like to call
"important things,"
so I’d appreciate if you’d
stop messing around with it
and pulling my strings.

I’ve got people to think of here!
More importantly,
I’ve got people that rely on me
to be their source of disappointment.
And how am I going to do that
when I can barely put together
the few words I need
to make them realise i’m just like you?

I’m unnecessary to most,
just like you.
Even though it pains me
to admit that and it leaves me
with cerebral bruising,
we both know it’s true.

Whenever you start whacking away
at the jail cell you call my cranium,
I can crawl over to my cupboard, at any time of day,
or my covertly tucked away stockpile,
and take a few pink pills or painkillers
til’ it no longer hurts to smile.

You’re easy to chase away.
Easy to forget.

I’m not at the same status as that just yet.

I’m an incessant, thumping,
infinitely pounding,

And unfortunately,
no amount of pills
can take that effect

- fortyeight


The rain came today.

For most,
it’s the first time they’ve seen
the dark grey clouds
looming in the sky
in a while.

As for myself,
they’ve been here for longer
than I care to remember.
I wonder why
or how I smile.

Along with it, though,
the rain brings comfort.
I’m not used to change in life.
It angers me;
alters moods.

Along with it, though,
the rain brings warmth.
A calming sensation, it brings,
you see; able to
alter attitudes.

The rain has come
and it’s made sure I know.
It hangs over my head
every single day,
bringing it low.

I’m used to the rain,
it’s practically all I’ve known.
Hour after hour,
year after year,
I’ve never grown.

do not feel for me,
whether it be remorse
or sorrow,

because the rain came today,
but the storm comes tomorrow.

- fortyeight

"I’m sick of trying, but it seems there’s no cure."

fortyeight (10 words )

how to be a writer (or poet)

be sad
be sad some more
drink whatever alcohol at 6am
put words together.

you’re welcome.


Wispy white
clouds laid across
the scarlet rivers
so tight,
reminding my
mind of what
it suffered through
the other night.

Cracks strewn
the broken ground
where the rivers
runs so strong,
leave me
where it all
went terribly wrong.

When the August sun
fades away,
the rivers
will run dry.
After that,
all that’ll stay
are the arid
where souls go
to die.

We’ll cement the cracks up
and forget about
the rivers that
run in their place.
In time, I’m sure,
they’ll run again,
after all,
it’s this “man’s”
only fate.

- fortyeight


When I was younger,
my Mom always told me
never to talk to strangers.

Maybe that’s why it’s so hard
to make new friends.

See, we’re constantly
reminded of the dangers
that’ll bring our lives to an end,
but most of us don’t live enough
to experience any.

You’re told not to stand
on the edge of buildings
that are tall.
Not to play with
sharp things like
knives and such.
Not to go near stray dogs,
homeless people,
or anything at all.
Not to stay up late,
drink soda,
or curse too much.

You’ll end up with
a fear of heights,
things that cut,
a man with a sign,
a wandering mutt,
and “fuck.”

I have not one of
these fears.

I’ve stood on a building’s ledge,
cut myself with a knife’s edge,
given money to the broke,
given a filthy dog a good stroke,
too late, I have stayed up,
had my fair share of 7-Up
and said the word “cunt.”
(A sharp word indeed,
but i’m quite blunt.)

And i’m still here -
though I talk
far too much.
I show myself
too often.
Ask almost anyone -
they can judge.

I’ll bleed out onto paper
and shove it down their throat,
despite the fact that
most don’t care what I wrote.
I’ll shout it from my
tiny heaven, way up in the clouds.
I’ll make sure that they hear me.
After all, I can be quite loud.

I’ll show them what I’m made of,
whether they like it or not.
They might not stick around afterwards,
but hey, it’s worth a shot.
I’ll tell them everything,
show them the very depths of Hell.
With my broken emotions,
I’ll make sure to repel.

I’ll talk until there’s no one here,
until i’m all alone,
until I finally have a fear
and my heart turns to stone.

I’ll probably move people away,
until there’s no remainder.
On second thought, boys and girls,
please don’t talk to strangers.

- fortyeight

Written whilst 48 sleeps, by Adrian.

Rhymes rhyme rhymes
lines lines lines
he puts pen to paper
a keyboard gladiator
a genius procrastinator
with too much
time time time
Rhymes rhyme rhymes
2 digits he resigns.

a free spirit
a wingless swiftness
a gust of success
a gentle transgress,
an attempt to confess
all of his stress and
a journey of worry
all through stories
and myths
as he sits
at his thrown
a last hurrah
all this is a show
at least its medieval
a feeble young mind
an artist with no easel
a boy who’s peaceful
also my equal
all of this upheaval
for nothing more
but his people.

For their will be a sequel 

truly something more devious
and evil,
possibly lethal
a burst of adrenaline
left with a skeleton.
It’s just a comparison
a swinging pendulum
Just as time
All can be stable.

too late

When the sunrise comes
and shines through
my window,
when the birds start
chirping a melody,
it’s then that I know
i’m up too late.

When the rays
the cloth,
when the sounds
my ears,
i’m up too late.

When my throat aches
from breathing
when my lungs
just the same
as I do,
i’m up too late.

When the vodka burns
my tongue
and the clock
tells me I’ve been
up too long;
the bastard,
how dare he.

When the same clock
tells me we haven’t
talked in hours;
the bastard.
When my eyelashes
meet despite
my power,
I’m up too late.

When I’m tired
and my mind’s
finally gone,
when I want
nothing more
than for me and
my bed to become one,
I’m up too late.

When I know I won’t
be able to fall
when no help
comes from
sacrificing sheep,
I’m not up late enough.

When my eyes
resist closing
when my dreams
insist on turning
I’m not up late enough.

When exhaustion
is my only
when I lay
in bed lonely
and cope
with tiredness,
I’m not up late enough.

When insomnia
takes over my night
and causes me
nothing else
but strife,
as it does
so often,
there’s no such thing
as ‘too late.’

When sleep
becomes my only
because my mind
runs free when
it’s awake,
there’s no such thing
as ‘too late.’

When I’m left
in my bed,
wanting only
to rest my
screaming head,
I know it’s all
too late.

- 48

put it into words

I wonder why
what doesn’t kill me
isn’t trying harder.
After all,
I’ve been acting
laying awake in bed,
wanting nothing more
than to call her.
Checking to see
if she’s actually
texted me;
as if my life depended on it.

i’ve been dreaming,
mostly of her;
that much I know.
Even though,
when I open my eyes
it just turns to a blur.
I’ve been trying
to put this all
into words:
what I feel for her.
It’s an order so tall,
it’s a little absurd.

Some say that
3 is all it takes.
But, they’re lying.
I say those 3 
so often it makes
it seem
i’m oversimplifying.

Some say that
a love letter
is the right course of action.
But, they’re wrong.
It’s a novelty,
an emotional fraction,
you see and to me,
something i’ve known
all along.

So I won’t
write a letter
or say those 3
when I want
to let her
In my eyes,
when you want to say
'I love you,'
a poem’s the way to go.

But maybe that’s just me.

- fortyeight

drink up

I’m often asked
why it is I drink
so much at such
a young age.

I drink to forget.
I drink to numb.
I drink with a cigarette.
I drink to become
someone else.

I don’t like who I am
so I drink.

I drink to calm it all.
I drink to find peace.
I drink to stop myself
from climbing up the walls.

I drink to remember
what it’s like to feel.
I drink to destroy.
I drink to lower my barriers,
as hard as steel.

I don’t like who I am
so I drink.

I drink to overcome.
I drink to see the real me.
I drink to make it easier,
as I persevere this
perilous journey.

I drink because I’m terrified.
I drink because I’m scared.
I drink to make sure people
around me actually care.

I don’t like who I am
so I drink.

I drink because
I can’t fight anymore.
I drink because
I’m exhausted.

I drink because
it’s the easy way out.
I drink because
I have doubts
about who I am

I don’t like who I am
so I drink.

I don’t like who I am
and I’m scared.

I drink because
it’s easier
than ending it.

There’s your answer.
One you didn’t have to
search for at the bottom
of a lonely bottle.

I hope you’re happy with it.