Fred's Poetry Journal

I know what it’s like to write and only get a few views a day. I’ve tried Reddit, Tumblr, blogs — always hoping to find that one space where my poetry might finally reach an audience. But nothing ever really sticks. So... I decided to try and make something myself.

This is a call to all writers and bloggers who are still in that phase — the one where nothing seems to gain real traction, no matter how much you care or how hard you try.

And if you know what I mean, consider submitting your work here, or search for Fred’s Poetry Journal and head to the submit section. I’m hoping to build a space where small writers can promote their work and genuinely feel seen.

And if submitting isn’t your thing, maybe give this a reblog — if just one person gets just a few more views because of me then drafting this TEN times will be worth it.

Outside sits a tree stump Where once a tree trunk stood Rot has charred the insides And spilt the shattered wood

The blossoms now lie sunken And sit in six feet graves Where once they’d have fallen In floating fragrant waves

Branches that touched the sun Now burning on the floor, Each snapped twice over, Each shattered once more.

The tree that scraped the sky Let its tears grace the ground And now all that lies there Is a broken tree stump mound

Outside sits a tree stump Beside two growing shoots Living off the death Of the broken tree stump roots

When the sweat stings, When the steps come hard, And your head rings With the reverb of your heart.

When the thing propping you up Is fear of falling down, And everyone’s better, And everyone’s stronger, And someone somewhere Always lasts longer.

When you think no one’s listening, Because you seem to be shouting, When you feel no one’s watching, Because you seem to be screaming,

That’s when you know you’re closest. When it’s hardest to keep calm and smile, That’s when you know You’ve reached the last mile.

When the feelings you helped me form Let me feel every second—

The rough around the edges, And every imperfection,

I’ll be looking up to you.

When the thoughts you helped me think Let me view the world unfiltered,

Let me sieve the facts from pictures,

Let me look up at the world, Looking up to you.

When the words you helped me write Let me get somewhere in life, Express myself through ink I’ve spilled, I’ll be looking up to you.

And when the steps you helped me take Let me appreciate the journey—

The sunset runs In soft, dying day.

I’ll be looking up to you.

And then, One day, When I become A dad, Half as loved as you —

And have someone who looks up, And sees me;

I’m ill,

But my nose doesn’t run,

And my throat isn’t sore,

And my mind isn’t racing,

And my thoughts aren’t at war.

I’m ill,

But my heart isn’t drumming,

And my temperature’s not high,

And my skin isn’t burning,

And my mouth isn’t dry.

But the one thing I know

Is that yes, I am ill.

And there’s a hole in my chest

Something whole used to fill.

Rotavirus,

Norovirus,

Influenza,

Acute polio,

Pneumonia,

Ebola —

Definitely no.

All I know: there's a hole

Where something whole used to go.

And now when I think about it,

The world seems to slow.

Seconds stretch slowly,

Into minutes they grow

And now when I think about it,

The only thing that I know —

There’s a hole in my chest

Very welcoming, good pancakes. 

Room service is great, and up with the best 

Breakfast is good, could do with finesse 

Tired in places and more often cold 

But some things get better when just getting old 

Tidying service which comes with no fee 

Is amazing considering it all there for free 

Customer service is always just right 

And available for use all through the night 

The best that I’ve visited, the only one too 

Different, That sunrises and sunsets were sat on different Pages of the same dictionary, So that the two ideas could never Intertwine, Share definitions for different Places in time.

I used to think sunsets were Different.

I used to think they never Happened, That their placement in the day Defined their placement in time. That just because they hadn't happened Yet, Doesn’t mean they won’t.

Original Photography and Haiku, Hope you Enjoy!

Imagine a field of dead poppies, With a dead sun overhead, Imagine a field of dead poppies, Each petal freshly bled.

Imagine a field of dead poppies, And a bench sitting by the side, Sitting with a view of the poppies Whose memory never died

And in a few days' time, Nothing but bare barren earth, Lest we forget their death, Death for a new world’s rebirth,

Imagine a field of wild flowers, There where the poppies once fought, Imagine a field of wild flowers, Where poppies were once cut short.

10 Reasons why Rubik’s Cubes are Pointless

One. In the end you always end on square One. Two. Everyone, everywhere has the exact same version As you, same squares to shift, same shades, Same colours too Three. Yeah, it’s not free, but really what change does a Change in arrangement make to the disposition Of a world full of repetition. Four. For every solve, for every scramble and achievement You gain, in the end what’s it matters if it all Ends the same. Five. To how you started. Right back to where you were Before the fivefold repetition of Scramble solve scramble solve, Solve some more. Six. Six faces, six chances, five more than me so Why do I treasure it if it’s pointless? Seven. Pointless. Ironic for something with eight separate points. Eight. And what I hate is the question ‘does it makes a Difference?’ Nine. And does it Really Really Matter? Ten. And in the end do you always get back to Square one?