Poetry

By the Shouting Mute

He Drives

By The Shouting Mute

He Drives
He Drives
This is a poem about mental health. This is how I
feel sometimes.

Stars running in the night sky. A young man slays
a wedding in a black car. He drives he drives he
drives.
The mountains are coming to him faster. At first
it was delights and gold. Now weed is the only
thing that comes to him through the day. Fake
laughs. Fake smiles. Fake confusing bodyguards
trying to help out of compassion. Love for sure.
He drives he drives he drives. Why did you ever see
that. Hear this. Feel that. He can’t really work
out stuff. The huff of the wind. It doesn’t move
anything. Just offloads more. He drives he drives
he drives. The thoughts fool him. Words do too
that is the puzzle. A word is fickle but so strong
at the time of understanding. We need to let go
now. He drives he drives he drives. The changes. He
doesn’t want to eat. He doesn’t want to move
anymore. It’s too much. Just when you have a bit
of peace. A funeral of normality steals it. He
drives he drives he drives. The funeral of life
came at the wrong time. What would have
happened? It’s a pointless question. Now it’s
difficult. It will be okay but it’s okay not to
feel at all at the moment. You will talk again
and then it will be okay. You will drive to the
sunset. Stop off at many colours. The colours
will be happiness.

THE SHOUTING MUTE

By The Shouting Mute


The idea for this poem came from my wonderful
Mum. I wrote this years ago, maybe on my first
day after I left school. I said goodbye to that
part of my life. I wanted to work in performing
arts and creative writing, and this was what I
wanted to stand for.

The Shouting Mute gets his point across.
The Shouting Mute lets people know what he
thinks and feels.
The Shouting Mute considers and then shouts.
The Shouting Mute talks to you like a squirrel
with a tigers roar.
The Shouting Mute sees emotions in people.
The Shouting Mute knows to listen with his eyes
and ears before shouting.
The Shouting Mute talks to you with his body.
The Shouting Mute talks to you with his head.
The Shouting Mute talks to you with his eyes.
Watch a mute’s body and listen to their talking
heart.
Sharing their dreams, sharing their missions,
sharing their opinions.
The Shouting Mute is fighting for a world that
has difference,
Respect and peace, as its only agreement.
The Mute does not stop talking.
The listeners do not hear the mute’s words,
Listen and you will hear the mute speak
everyone’s unique language.
I am a Mute but can you hear me? Yes you can.
The quietest people in the room are always the
loudest.

Lucky Bugger

By The shouting Mute


This poem is an old one that’s had a makeover, like a pack of mini cheddars into a
camembert. Some of you might recognise it from the older poems I shared before.
I have renewed it so it is more like a lad just loving life, eating from a popular
fried chicken establishment. It turns disability on its head.

Why is disabled called disabled?
It should have been called lucky bugger.
I am a lucky bugger.
I have a dream life, like asking my carer to get me coca cola, chocolate and ice
cream.
I am a lucky bugger.
I have a driver to drive me wherever I want to go.
Cinema, to get a cheeky bit of fried chicken, and the betting shop for ‘There Goes
Shirley’ in the 14:45.
I am a lucky bugger.
I don’t do the washing, cooking and cleaning.
Isn’t that everyone’s dream?
I am a lucky bugger.
Disabled people get to do some fantastic things, meet celebrities and royals,
they are cool.
I am a lucky bugger.
I get to sit in the front row at the football, rugby matches, and the theatre.
I am a lucky bugger.
Some people give me money.
Thanks but I don’t need it.
I am a lucky bugger.
I travel a lot. Sorry world.
I am a lucky bugger.
I get fantastic equipment, an electric wheelchair, an eye gaze, the coolest
computer on earth.
I am a lucky bugger.
So don’t feel sorry for me, because I feel sorry for you.

Why I’m Afraid of Shaving

By The Shouting Mute

I am very scared of shaving
Whoever hates shaving, this poem is dedicated
to you. When I grew up, I worked out pretty
quickly that I hated shaving. I think I shaved
for my family members and then I just
decided not to. Now I have a trim now and
again but, for a while, I refused to shave at
all and this is why.


Having someone coming at you with a razor
with 5 sharp blades
Is like a bear attacking you with 5 swords in
one hand and a kettle in the other.
The electric razors are not great at getting
your beard off your face
It’s like an angry rat on your chin, running
around your smile.
I go to the Barber now. Professionals are
always better.
But I can’t stop moving. Keep still, they say.
That’s like telling the Earth to stop spinning
today.
Just for today, you can spin again tomorrow.
I wouldn’t try it the olden way
That’s just a large blade cutting the blood
out of your face.
I’m pretty sure the barber doesn’t want to
go to jail
For killing a disabled person.
So I’ll keep my beard until I have to shave
for something special.
Sorry to disappoint you but,
If I have my beard today, you’re not that
special.

Relationship Slut

Relationship Slut
This poem is a response to the facebook status function,
specifically ‘in a relationship’. I wrote this just because I
think it’s stupid and nobody really cares. It just shows
more people get their heart broken. People respond to
these status updates with, ‘they’re out of your league’,
or ‘that couple is sweet’, or ‘what the hell, you and you
don’t go together’. I don’t really care but the poem is to
do with the facebook function and the stigma the word
‘relationship’ has now, when that word actually means so
much more than just being a couple.


I’m a relationship slut.
I’m in a relationship with my postman.
I see him. I wave and he waves back.
That’s technically a relationship.
Should I change my Facebook status to ‘in a relationship’?
I’m in a relationship with my dog, but she sleeps around
all day.
Should I change my Facebook status to ‘in a relationship’?
I’ve been in a relationship with my toy dog, Scoop, since I
was 3.
It’s my longest relationship.
Should I change my Facebook status to ‘in a relationship’,
for 20+ years?
I’m in a relationship with chocolate.
I eat it at every opportunity.
Should I change my Facebook status to ‘in a relationship’?
I’m in a relationship with Batman. I love him.
I’m an Adam West type of guy.
Christian Bale is alright, better than Ben Affleck.
Should I change my Facebook status to ‘in a relationship’?
I’m in a relationship with my car.
I take it out and it repays me by playing music.
I’m in a relationship with the Aston Martin, but only in my
dreams.
I’m in a relationship with my wheelchair.
It hugs my butt, and we get filthy together.
I’m in a relationship with my switches.
I bang them so hard, they break.
Relationships, they’re funny things, filled with desires
and dreams.
Giving and gaining. We never could work that out.
Inside, I’m a wet drip dreaming about romantic days.
My Facebook status is in 500 relationships.
I’m a relationship slut.

I’m an eye gaze

By The Shouting Mute

This is a poem from the point of view of my
communication device. It’s called an eye gaze, because I
use the device with my eyes. I like making things talk.
When you rely on so many objects in your daily life, you
start to imagine what characters they might have.


I’m an eye gaze.
I’m here to help someone talk
And do other things.
Shopping, Tweeting, Facebooking, Dating, Emailing,
Betting, Gambling, Playing Fantasy Football, Texting
people, usually a crush, properly chatting to people
face to face.
Not on Zoom.
Apart from in a lockdown.
I will allow that.
And doing stuff I don’t care about but have to do
because it’s my bloody job.
The list of possibilities of online mischief is longer than
A trip around the globe a hundred zillion times.
Luckily he hasn’t found the dark web. Yet.
Dave’s not living in gangster’s paradise. Yet.
I refuse to get involved in drugs or guns.
He thinks it and presses my buttons with his eyes.
I play music for him, really loud
Until his mum says David John Young turn that down.
His mum is very cool.
She knows me better than Dave
But I have to say he’s right until she proves he isn’t.
I am really for talking but, honestly, Dave’s never on
the chat page.
Only when he has to be in meetings or at family dinners.
I get splashes of pasta sauce, pizza, and chocolate
milkshake, all over me.
His eyes drill through my screen
Like a light saber
Cutting through a metal door.
He’s on the dating sites again.
This is when he uses me as a James Bond gadget
To get potential partners to like him.
I don’t know why he needs me at times like these,
When his dreamy brown eyes do all the talking.

Be Cheeky, Be Naughty and Get into Trouble

by the Shouting mute

Be Cheeky, Be Naughty, Get Us into Trouble
This poem is from the point of view of my walking frame,
a piece of equipment that helps me walk. Okay, walk isn’t
really the word, more like scoot, and do a wobbly stand
occasionally if my Mum and physio are lucky.


Be cheeky, be naughty, get us into trouble.
Let’s ram into mats and let your friends ride our back.
Let your mate Terry spin us around.
Be cheeky, be naughty, get us into trouble.
Let’s run around the track, you need to run again.
Let’s let them hit balls at us.
Do wheelies, put your feet up, scuttle and skate.
Be cheeky, be naughty, get us into trouble.
Let’s splash through puddles and mud and put paint on
our wheels.
Let’s put a hose pipe on us and have a water fight.
Let’s dance, go on stage, get too close to the edge.
Find a wig, a guitar, dress up as a rock star.
Let’s hide and run. Play grandmother’s footsteps,
See the waves and run away, from mum with the dog.
Be cheeky, be naughty, get us into trouble.
Let’s jump up and down, bat off hockey balls.
Let’s kick balls. Let’s dodge balls.
Let’s run to class one minute late.
Push the boundaries. Get us out. Out with the air filling
up our lungs.
Some other time than the physio hour.
Be cheeky, be naughty, get us into trouble.

THE GIG

By The Shouting Mute

Gig
This is a poem about going to a gig. I love music and gigging.
It’s a big part of my life. Music and art are so powerful,
except for the ear ringing afterwards.


Our ears bleed with sound.
The heat wet with sweat. The smell of beer stinking out the
atmosphere.
Claustrophobic and dark.
A scene of war. A war that I enjoy.
The stink-bomb of a stranger’s body odour. Gorgeous,
heaven.
Guitars smashing out the meaty sound of punk rock.
Funky bass keeping time.
Drums are feeding my heartbeat. `
The equalizing experience of noise and movement.
My bodyguards batting the crowd away like cricket balls
It’s a rough sea of people capsizing on our laps.
Kick them into the circle pit like a psycho killer.
Tonight, the band is rocking and the crowd roar like lions.
Bodies going mad with sporadic, violent, harmless
movement.
It’s like everyone’s got Cerebral Palsy.
Our heads are banging, Sweat is dripping, Flooding the
floor.
Who doesn’t have a crush on a singer?
I wonder at the band in amazement.
Once I messaged Vinnie from Less Than Jake,‘Fantastic gig
tonight, dudes.’
And he replied.
He replied.
‘Fantastic seeing YOU rocking out down the front. Vinnie.’
I should frame it.
It’s my dream to be librettist for my favourite
artists.Blink 182, Green Day, and obviously Busted.
Gigging every night.
A professional groupie.
It’s Monday morning.
I wake up vomiting.
Late for work.having to say.
‘Hi, I’m Dave, nice to meet you.’

It’s OK

By The Shouting Mute

It’s Okay
This is a poem about diversity and why you should just be happy and celebrate who you
are. It’s Okay was actually a response to Avenue Q, the musical. If you see it playing
near you, it’s amazing and you should go see it. In fact, stop reading this and go see it.
I’ll type the poem anyway because you’ll still read on.


It’s OK to be LGBTQ+.
It’s OK to be from ethnically diverse groups.
It’s OK to still identify as European and British.
It’s fantastic to be disabled.
It’s great to follow what you believe.
It’s normal to be different.
Why can’t you have purple hair if you want?
Why can’t you go out in your pyjamas?
Why can’t you just be yourself?
No one should judge who you are!
It’s not OK to be depressed by society.
It’s not OK to not be heard.
It’s not OK to be abused.
But it is OK to cry.
Don’t be scared to shout about anything you are going through.
Not speaking up is saying it’s OK.
We’re all normal people;We have likes and dislikes, Boyfriends or girlfriends,
Whoever you love, it’s OK.
It’s OK to be religious.
It’s OK to like what you do and believe in it.
Just be proud and unashamed of what you do.
If you’re unhappy change something, be happy!
It’s your life, be who you want.
I’m happy.
You can be too.
Just be yourself, be grateful for who you are.
You do you. I’ll do me.
We can all live in peace.

PING POEM!

By The Shouting Mute

Ping Poem
This poem is another anti social media poem, even though I
love social media. Don’t go on social media now just because I
wrote that. You’re thinking about your phone. Your phone is
calling you with its pinging. Honestly, don’t pick it up. Okay,
okay, I guess you can read the poem after you’ve picked up the
phone and been on social media if you really must. I know you
really want to, right now! Don’t you? Ping. Ping. Your phone is
calling you. Here’s my ping poem.


Who’s that buzz? What’s that ping? It’s a ring ring to be
engaged with the world 24/7 all night and all day. The social
media world today. Now now now.
Tweeting. Chatting. Posting. Sharing. Only perfect pictures
please. Tweet tweet am I trending? Is that trend the truth?
Now now now.
The fake news about our lives is out for all to see. I love
being connected but you don’t need to know every time I
sneeze. I saw you in a photo with Sahara. I thought you broke
up. You can’t be friends with her if you want to be friends
with me. Now now now.
Look at you there. Was that really 2 years ago? Yes but who
really gives a shit? That’s what we did on this day in 2012? Yes
I loved you but I don’t need a reminder of every single
moment. Now now now.
I posted a public event, and you bloody turned up. Why?
Without social media you wouldn’t even be here. You wouldn’t
even know. Oh my god. We are chatting again. I don’t know how I
feel about this. Now now now.
It’s your birthday. Ping happy birthday. That’s nice. Ping happy
birthday mate have a lovely day. Ping Sam, ping Fred. He’s a
dick but still worth a ping. Ping Kevin. Ping Roxy. Ping Graham.
Ping Heather. Ping Bill. Well they can fuck off, all the dicks
who didn’t reply. Really? Keep in touch? My arse. Now now
now.
Oh my God Bella is single. I liked her years ago. Shall I say hi?
Hey, how’s life? She didn’t reply. I say hey again. She didn’t
reply. I know I shouldn’t say hey again but I do. It’s pointless.
Nothing. Now now now.
Funny dog, just a cat, just the shoes I googled the other day.
The cheeky little swines. Wait a second mum sent me those on
whatsapp. How did that get through to facebook? Nothing’s
private anymore. Careful what you google. Now now now.
I deleted my account. Six days later I was back. I missed it. I
had to rejoin the world again. What else was I going to do?
Now now now.
Ok now you can go on social media

Grow Up

By The Shouting Mute

Grow Up
This poem is about friendship and missing someone that you
had a really special friendship with. Someone you just
naturally connect with, and can’t help but wish you could
be friends without the stupid feelings and emotions.


Grow up. Grow up. We are older now. Grow up. Grow up. I
don’t like you anymore in that way. Grow up. Grow up. I just
asked a question. Grow up. Grow up. I just want to be
friends. Grow up. Grow up. We don’t need to play games
anymore. Grow up. Grow up. I was just wondering. Grow up.
Grow up. I want you to understand that I haven’t got
friends like you. Grow up. Grow up. I am moving on but I
don’t want to not know you. Grow up. Grow up. I just want
another sister and brother, mine have gone away. You are
my sister from another mother. Grow up. Grow up. I need
you to be here, I am alone. Yes I am doing fantastic in life
but that doesn’t necessarily bring friends. Grow up. Grow
up. I miss you.

In a different World

By the Shouting Mute

In a Different World
This poem is about wondering who I would still know if
we were in a different universe, and accepting this world
for what it is.


In a different world. Would the fire have started from
the same crash? Impossible to tell. Impossible to know. Is
this our time? Although it’s not convenient. In a
different world. Would our stars have stopped next
door? Would one star have stopped? The other would be
on another motorway. The world’s dual carriageway is
nowhere to properly sit. Would you still be there when
the petrol ran out? In a different world. Would we be
dining delightfully together? Would we be going on
dates and romancing each other to the early hours?
Would we be giving each other the same flowers? Would
the seeds not have been planted? In a different world.
What is the point of pondering about a different place?
If this is it, I am joyful about the glorious sunshine that
we present each other.

Chocolate

By The Shouting Mute

Chocolate
This is my love sonnet to chocolate. I believe the answer to
everything is chocolate.


Chocolate yummy!
Chocolate scrummy!
Chocolate deliciousness!
Chocolate in my belly please, preferably right now.
Chocolate, I eat you at every opportunity.
Chocolate, I make no discrimination to whatever form you
present yourself in.
Chocolate, milk or white, I will always desire you.
Chocolate, you are the shake to my milk. I do occasionally go
pink I am sorry about that.
Chocolate, you are so hot in my sexy batman mug.
Chocolate, you are always on my pancakes, every Saturday
morning.
Chocolate, you are always in a pot of joy.
Chocolate, cooked as cookie dough. That is a sight like the
sunset.
Chocolate, you go perfectly with every pudding.
Chocolate, you are milky and creamy in my mouth.
Chocolate, you are gorgeous, when your pretty purple
wrapper comes down.
Chocolate, you always thrill me when you are near.
Chocolate, you are like fags to me. I can’t get through a day
without you.
Chocolate, I love licking your cake beaters.
Chocolate, I love soft brownies. You are a square of heaven.
Chocolate, you are saucy. I will enjoy you every second.
Cake, bars, ice cream, buttons, and in everything you kiss.
Chocolate, I love you on my lips.
Chocolate, I would buy you flowers every day.
Chocolate, we could go for romantic walks on the beach.
Chocolate, we could have a classic MG together.
Chocolate, we can go to Belgium together.
Chocolate, we could settle down and get a flat together.
Chocolate, we could get a pet rabbit together.
Chocolate, we could get chicks together, they can lay big
chocolate eggs.
Chocolate, you are the love of my life.
Chocolate. Will you marry me? I don’t think I will ever find
another partner like you.

POOLE

By The Shouting Mute

Poole
This poem is about my home town, Poole, on the south coast, slap bang at the bottom
just before the Isle of Wight. This is about my memories of growing up in the town.


Poole, the birth of me, the place of me.
The world wasn’t ready.
Poole, the birth of me, the place of me.
The relaxing channel, the sea, is washing me.
The sea washes me away. The sea washes me away. The sea washes me away.
I learnt about the world.
Became the person who I am.
Is it for me now though?
Poole, the sand in my feet.
The cold sea touching my toes.
I love coming home.
Having cream teas with my family.
Poole, the birth of me, the place of me.
The relaxing channel, the sea, is washing me.
The sea washes me away. The sea washes me away. The sea washes me away.
Poole smells fresh like seaweed at low tide.
We can see the sea for a mile.
It’s the most beautiful mile that you will ever see.
Blue wash with green trees on Brownsea.
I took somebody to Evening Hill to look over the harbor once.
They broke my heart with grit.
That won’t be the end of my Poole story.
Poole, the birth of me, the place of me.
The relaxing channel, the sea, is washing me.
The sea washes me away. The sea washes me away. The sea washes me away.
I love my family home.
I will never forget the day I first drove my power wheelchair at White Cliff Park.
I will never forget sailing on Granddad’s boat.
The wind on my red chin.
Poole, the birth of me, the place of me.
The relaxing channel, the sea, is washing me.
The sea washes me away. The sea washes me away. The sea washes me away.
I will never forget the map of the town and where I like to go.
I will never forget the community that gave me my life.
I will never forget the chocolate on my face in most of the cafes.
I will never forget the strength that my school gave me and the life that I needed.
Poole, the birth of me, the place of me.
The relaxing channel, the sea, is washing me.
A life where I treasure friends.
A life where I worked my passions.
Those passions are now bigger than a place.
A life that is my family and I love them.
Poole, my home, a place in my heart.
Poe