Illustration by Freya Williams

Here they are;

My thoughts

Marketed as novice literature

Who’s to say of their quality?

To some, they may be akin

To the works of laureates;

To others, they may read like sophomoric scribblings in an eighth grader’s diary


I know little of form;

But I know what I think

And what I think,

I write down

It may be refuse,

Or it may be gold;

It’s not for me to say,

But rather a subject to individual judgement


If I were to write of love,

How many a scribe had tread the road

Before I’d even laced up my boots?

If I were to set off on a diatribe

Regarding the state of things and the powers that be,

Would I be bringing about anything thus far unsaid?

And what of a love unrequited?

To think myself as having been the sole occupant of this vast vessel would be folly


The world is not original;

Nor anything within it.

It is retread after retread after retread;

Changes are minor, if there be any

But, in the end,

Does it really matter?