I spent years confusing grief
with blankness and dissociation,
numb from a young age.

I wept openly as a child
at my grandmother’s funeral,
and my father pulled me close.

His shirt dry, a desert of tears against my face.
He said, when I asked, 
that he'd cried it all out in the weeks as she was dying.

Whether truth or a lie
it meant the same thing:
he'd held back his tears.

Did he do it for me?

Or had this world taught him
that a man shouldn't cry--
taught him enough times 
that he felt it a duty to pass down?

I realise what a blessing
to have survived my own darkness,
leaving me soft enough to feel.

So I'll sit, and I'll sob
in cinema 3 at my local
weeping freely in the dark 

Because that which almost took me
is the very thing
that makes me so alive.

-S-2024 @seekinghopepoetry

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life shook me awake early
so for today
the sun mimics me.

we drag ourselves slowly 
through the morning
stretching our legs.

Y 
  A 
    W 
      N 

taking our time 
as we meander
searching for coffee.

caffeine
hits our bloodstream, and
we become one.

rushing. rushing. rushing.
hitting our stride together
glistening at noon.

before we both

Read more

For R. x


people don’t understand the power


in being the ‘first’ in their life


to go through a particular trial



whether you believe in God


the universe; or simply


the existence of time progressing



you can sit, upset


that life has you in a spot


where no-one else your age seems to have ventured



i get it.



God will use this; time will use this.


one day, a 27-year-old will sit


with a heart broken, just like yours



feeling like they are the first to experience it


which is when you can step forwards


offering the fruits currently growing



pouring out genuine empathy.


love.


guidance.



my dear friend


there’s such a blessing in your heartbreak.

Buy Me a Coffee

A few months ago, I entered a poetry competition for the first time ever!

The “Men Like Me” contest was hosted by , and the prompt was:

“What does it mean to be a man today? To wrestle with identity. To hold strength and softness in the same body. To live with grief, wonder, failure, and hope.”

I took an old poem that I had written — “It’s not weak to speak” — and reshaped it. Honestly? I think I overthought it. If I could go back in time, I’d just enter the original. But using an already written piece as the skeleton for a new idea was fun!

I was lucky enough to come away with 2nd place.

Men Like Me // Men Like Us

They told men like me that it’s not weak to speak

As they laughed at my tears, hurled stones at my softness.

I learned to clamp on an iron mask, 

Forced stoicism in the face of what had to be true:


There are no men like me.


I lived in that lie for years, unaware that men like me were dying;

Paying tolls on bridges they never asked to cross

It wasn’t until I stood on a bridge’s edge, ready to jump,

That I recognised the memorial photo

Marking the spot where a boy I went to school with

Had finally surrendered himself. 


Tearing off the mask to wipe my eyes, the scales lifted

I saw men to my left, and men to my right.

Shoulder to shoulder; silent in the cold

All of us on the ledge, hands off the railing

Broken men, faces hidden by rusted iron.


Men living in the lie that they had to be alone:
 
Men just like me.


I realised,

It was never meant to be men like me 

It was always meant to be men like us.


Men like us now gather, facing each other

Sitting on uneven chairs crafted from discarded, rusty iron

Baring the depths we once welded over;

Opening up more than this world ever taught us was safe

We seek nothing more than a tight hug in response.


We’re working together, 

To guide our sons and brothers and fathers

Across these bridges we were never meant to traverse alone

Dismantling toll-booths, casting boom-gates aside

Trading sharp words for a jagged embrace.


They told men like me that it’s not weak to speak.

But I’ve come to disagree.

Maybe it is weak to speak;

Weak for men like me to gather,

To reach out, to weep together, to sit shoulder to shoulder.


Maybe,

Weakness is exactly what men like us have always needed.


-S-2026

Thanks for reading! If you’d like to support my writing, I’d love for you to consider shouting me a coffee :)

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If you enjoyed this poem, the CFMF released a book with all the finalists. There are some truly remarkable pieces in it, by some truly remarkable men. I have a few others in there too! I highly recommend it.

Buy 'Same Slow Circles' here

Last month, a video of a Nigerian pastor standing on the edge of the ocean went viral.

It’s one of those clips that makes you want to look away, yet you can’t quite manage it. Fueled by a lethal cocktail of hubris and what I imagine was a skim-read of the book of Exodus, he wades into the ocean.

Arms outstretched, he gestures toward the horizon like a divine traffic cop — commanding the Atlantic to move.

The ocean, as you might expect, completely ignores him.

As his horrified congregation watches on, a wave knocks him off his feet, drags him into the swell, and nearly drowns him.

It’s easy to mock him. I certainly did the first few times I watched it. But if we’re being honest, the pastor is just a soggy metaphor for the definition of miracles that a lot of us have been sold.

Growing up in an evangelical church, the only miracles I was ever taught were the big, headline-worthy events in the Bible. If it didn’t involve somebody coming back to life, or defying the laws of physics either on top of or in front of the ocean — it didn’t count.

Which left me with a fairly narrow definition of what a miracle actually is.

To qualify, the event had to be dramatic. It had to have immediate results. And it had to be undeniably supernatural. In short, it had to be the sort of thing that was unquestionably of God.

This view has only made me miss the countless miracles hidden in the everyday.

The Miracle We Keep Misunderstanding

The parable of the Prodigal Son is often framed as a PR campaign for God’s scandalous levels of forgiveness.

We always seem to focus on the moment that the son returns; when the Father runs down the road, drapes his offspring in expensive jewellery, and ruins the day of his most fattened calf.

But I think we’ve been skipping over the most important part of the story.

The miracle doesn’t happen here, nor later at the party.

It happens in the pigpen.

It happens when the son first realises that he can go home; that a return might still be possible.

The text describes it with four simple words: “He came to himself”.

In the evangelical world I grew up in, that’s not a miracle — it’s just a “moment of clarity”.

Not only that, it’s an obvious moment of clarity. Because of course he “came to himself”, right? He’s lying in the mud, next to pigs, for the first time in his privileged life.

But the reality is that if rock bottom were enough to save us, then the pigpens of this world would be empty.

I know this to not be the case because I spent years trying to logic my way out of a gambling addiction.

It’s not that I wasn’t aware that I was in the mud. Nor, for that matter, that the pigpen was not where I should have been, nor wanted to be. I was very aware that I was only lying there because of my actions, just as the Prodigal Son.

So if “coming to yourself” was just a matter of hitting a low point, I would have been cured a thousand times over.

The problem with the version of miracles that I was taught in church — the Red Sea, the immediate healing, the flash of light — is that it suggests God only shows up to remove the problem. It suggests that the only thing that counts as “divine” is an instantaneous healing.

But in the cycle of addiction, there is no instant exit. There is only the agonisingly slow process of recovery.

There is only one day at a time.

Nobody calls Day One a miracle.

We wait until Day 1,000.

Even in the stories I grew up thinking of as “real miracles”, movement still matters.

God parts the sea. Israel still has to walk.

Jesus calls Peter. Peter still has to leave the boat.

The father waits on the road. The son still has to come home.

The miracle is not diminished by the humanity of these stories.

The fact that these stories exist in the presence of humanity is actually the miracle itself.

The Miracle in My 1000.

It is rare to hear a Christian testimony in the church that doesn’t end with something like, “And I never felt the urge again. Praise God”.

But for me — and for so many people sitting in those basement or church hall recovery meetings — the miracle doesn’t look like a sudden disappearance of urges.

It’s found in the everyday. Multiple times a day, if we dare to look hard enough.

For me, the miracle is when I pick up the phone and text a friend about how I’m actually going. I find it in a Sunday afternoon, when my phone is switched off, and I’m at the footy with my grandad.

When I was caught in the cycle of self-destruction, my “self” was the very thing that was broken. My brain had been hijacked, and my logic was a liar.

So when the Prodigal Son “comes to himself”, I don’t think that he is just having a good idea. He is experiencing a rupture in the laws of his own nature.

He is experiencing a miracle that the Church usually ignores because it’s not marketable enough.

The Basement vs. The Sanctuary

The irony is that we’ve built these massive institutions to celebrate a God of the spectacular, while the most profound “God-moments” I’ve ever witnessed have happened in the dank, sweaty room next door.

Our congregations are praying so fervently on a Sunday for the ocean to part; they’re forgetting to realise that every Monday there’s a group of people next door admitting they are powerless.

Upstairs, they’re looking for a sign from heaven. Downstairs, someone is finally able to sit in their own skin, completely sober.

The Church has become “miracle-blind” to the basement.

We’ve become so obsessed with God acting alone that we’ve stopped recognising Him working through people.

We’ve convinced ourselves that if a doctor was involved, or a therapist was involved, or a 12-step sponsor was involved, then it must not be “of God”. If we can’t attribute absolutely everything to God and God alone, then He won’t show up.

We’ve forgotten that God is love, and Love is god; and that means that God is everywhere and anywhere that Love is.

Thankfully, God seems far less concerned about getting credit than we are.

The Long-Form Miracle

I am currently over 1,000 days gamble-free.

In the evangelical world of my youth, that’s a “good result”. It’s a success story. But is it a miracle?

No. Not by the standards I was raised by.

I gambled for more than 6 of the 8 years between 18 and 26. I was actively trying to stop for the last 2 of these.

I relapsed multiple times.

If you ask the people who taught me about the Red Sea, they’d probably say it’s a testament to “willpower” or “personal responsibility”. They might save the word miracle for the guy who staggers forward during an altar call, is prayed for as he kneels before the stage, and magically loses the desire to gamble instantly and forever.

But I disagree.

Because the miracle of my sobriety isn’t that the desire just went away. Whilst I no longer struggle not to gamble, I still struggle to be present. To sit in my own skin with really any major level of comfort.

The miracle is that for the past 1007 days, in the face of a brain that couldn’t stop running, I’ve slowed. I’ve practiced presence. And I’ve started the brutal work of regular, complete honesty — with God and another human being. The miracle is the U-turn that has taken three years to even start, let alone complete.

We are so busy waiting for the Atlantic to move that we miss the miracle of the person who is sitting on the beach, feeling the sand between their toes. We forget about the mud that the Prodigal Son sat in only days earlier because we’re so focused on how he looked at the great banquet that night.

The Nigerian pastor at the edge of the ocean was looking for a God who interrupts nature. I’ve found a God who works through it. And I don’t think we’re hunting for different Gods; we’re just looking for Him through a different lens.

I don’t need to see the water pile up to believe in the divine anymore. I see it every time a man in a folding chair tells the truth when he so desperately wants to lie.

And if that’s not what the divine looks like in real time, I don’t know what is.

I’d love for you to please consider supporting my writing:

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A patient that I’ve known for 9 years came in for their routine appointment yesterday. I’ve seen her once a month for the whole time I’ve seen her. End stage Cancer had stripped away almost everything from her since the last time I had seen her; but her smile remained.

As I tested her eyes, I broke down. I sobbed.

I couldn’t hold it in. I didn’t want to hold it in.

It was good to feel and to cry — and as I sob again tonight whilst I write this, the grief is very real.

I wrote a poem about a similar experience two years ago.

there was a certain frailty about her

as she creaked into my room

that told me today would be the last


i held her hand mid-procedure

the last wrinkled squeeze

of a warm hand, bone-cold


part of me hopes i’m wrong

but most of me

hopes i’m right.


she deserves rest.

-S-2024 

Love.

coffee

our fear of offending others
has become too great,
our conversations now stagnant;
hollow
never letting us touch
the rawness of a friend's heart.


do you really think your Grandad is in a better place now? 
or does that just help you get out of bed each morning?

how much do you regret not keeping your mouth shut? 
not just following through with that wedding instead?

when was the last time you thought about death? 
was it natural; or by your own hand?

what scared you most as a child? 
did you overcome it with peace; or by just moving out of their house?


if what truly stops us
from asking these;
is a fear of igniting something dark
in those we love
then
we should be terrified now
for it already lurks deep within them


perhaps what looks like driving the knife in
is instead the first step
to cutting out the cancer
better that
than smiling silence


-S-2025 
(Revised 2026)

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I’ve never been an artist.

I’m fully aware that I write this and post it to an account full of poetry that I’ve written, and continue to write.

But I genuinely don’t see myself as an artist.

I don’t think I’ve ever really understood art, either.

I’ve cried over art. Once. I was in a very rough patch with a now ex-girlfriend, and visited a (well, the, there’s only one) modern art gallery here in Brisbane with her. I don’t remember the artist, nor the exhibition, but I remember that it was a hyper-realistic piece of two people embracing.

There was something so profound about the closeness of those depicted — magnified by the distance I felt between the heart standing next to me — and it broke me.

It was the first time I’ve cried over art, and I’m yet to have that reaction to another piece since.

I don’t say this boastfully, or necessarily in a prideful way. I love to cry. To feel so understood and seen and loved that your body has such an incredibly visceral reaction is truly one of the most beautiful things I think that this life offers us.

And yesterday afternoon, I watched somebody cry as they read a poem I’d written.

It was the first time in the 4ish years that I’ve been writing poetry I’ve ever entered a competition.

Hosted by , the prompt was to write a poem about the beauty, complexity, and struggles of life as a man.

My piece was displayed in the foyer at the recent annual ‘The Gathering’ weekend, amongst 20 other finalists.

Yesterday, as I sat in a chair nearby and contemplated which of the other pieces I was going to vote on to win, I saw a man walk up to my poem. Void of any social awareness, I stared at him as he read. And as he reached the final stanza of the piece, he paused.

I saw him study it. Read it over and over again.

And then?

I saw him wipe tears from his eyes.

Which was a real ‘oh, shit’ moment for me.

My ego was completely absent, too, which was an absolute blessing. Because it meant I didn’t see his tears and think, 'Wow, I am a brilliant writer’. I just saw my own human experience reflected in his. It wasn't about my literary skill; it was about our shared humanity.

I saw his reaction, and I simply felt entirely and utterly connected to him.

I felt just as seen by him as he — perhaps — felt seen by my words.

And it was in this, that I think I understood art for the first time in my life.

Because it was such an authentic reaction.

It wasn’t a ‘like’ on an instagram post, kind feedback from a friend, nor a share here on Substack.

There was absolutely no doubting that this man had read my poem, in its entirety, and had felt something. And in a brain like mine — one constantly tainted with crippling levels of self-doubt — I can’t describe just how monumentally beautiful that was.

I didn’t watch him read the other poems.

He may have bawled at every other piece, and as a result, found the clarity to revisit mine on his way out the door; laughing at his reaction to it but 20-minutes prior. He may never think of my poem ever again.

Frankly, it doesn’t matter.

Because in that moment, even if for just a second, we connected.

And it has ignited a fire in me to re-focus on my poetry. To finally sit down and finish formatting my first manuscript that I’ve been sitting on for almost 2 years now.

To start compiling other pieces that I’ve written.

And to pick up the pen yet again, and start scribbling away.

Here’s to more connection x

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As the results for this competition haven’t yet been finalised, I’m holding back from posting my entry publicly. I’ll update you with the piece as soon as the winners are announced by the CFMF.

I shared a story with today about how a man saved my life a few years ago; simply by showing up.

You can find that article here:

The Centre for Men & Families

How a Medium Flat White Saved My Life

I’ve always imagined the act of saving somebody’s life to be some sexy, adrenaline-fueled cinematic event. A dramatic rescue from a burning building, or a slow-mo dive to take a bullet meant for someone else…

Read more

3 months ago · 4 likes · 1 comment · The Centre for Men & Families

Here’s the poem I originally wrote that inspired that piece.

The Man in the Park 

For Ian. 

I am eternally grateful for your love, your selflessness, and for your kindness that saved my life more than once. 

 
The man in the park, 

texted one night, after dark 

offering a solution - in part - to my problems. 

 

His affordable fee 

I discovered with glee: 

a flat white; medium, half sugar. 

 

I was desperate, you see 

so, I would quickly agree, 

arriving at the park that weekend. 

 

Coffee in hand,  

for the man I park-scanned 

knowing only his name, and ‘he's balding’. 

 

He soon then appeared,  

sporting a salt and pepper beard, 

taking ownership with a quick sip of his payment. 

 

I stared, half surprised 

at the kindness in his eyes 

waiting for him to present me with a pill. 

 

Instead, he gestured, 'take a seat' 

it's lovely to meet, 

if you're looking for drugs; there is none.  

 
 

'I'm afraid', he continued 

'There's naught to be issued 

that might brighten this darkness you’re trapped in.’ 

 

So we sat, in the heat,  

whilst flies licked our feet, 

and I started to feel I’d been had. 

 

Before the man carried on, 

'But I have all day long. 

to sit and listen as you speak.' 

 

For a moment I froze, 

hesitant to disclose, 

years worth of darkness and shame. 

 

Before the smile on his face, 

told me this might be the place 

to start absolving myself of this pain. 

 

So, we sat and we talked, 

after a few hours we walked, 

and still I continued my confessional. 

 

We met there each week, 

the bench a safe place to speak, 

until I ran out of new questions for him. 

 

It was then I sat back, 

my shoulders went slack, 

a heavy weight lifted, yes, but still present. 

 


He said 'I'll try my best, 

to put your problems to rest, 

but that doesn't mean I will solve them.' 

 

I must have looked perplexed, 

as he quickly said next 

'I'll teach you instead to sit by them.' 

 

‘That it's o.k. to exist, 

vision blurred by the mist, 

of issues, yet to be worked through.' 

 

That was the start, 

of lessons, in part, 

that we may never see to completion. 

 

'For life doesn't pause, 

or put an end to our flaws, 

trust me on that one', he whispered. 

 

We'd had quite a day,  

we both went to say 

peeling ourselves from the park bench in unison. 

 

And, whilst we said our goodbyes, 

tears filled my eyes, 

as I feared abandonment on the horizon. 

 

Yet over the years, 

he's dispelled these fears, 

replacing them instead with love and wisdom. 

 


We've met less and less. 

To a point, I’ll confess, 

that at times I forget his fee-details. 

 

And yet, I'm still blessed, 

that he’s not found me a pest 

always answering my texts with great wisdom. 

 

So, I sit now, a better man 

thanks to the outstretched hand, 

of the man, in the park, years ago. 

 

-S-2023 

 

All coffees purchased as a result of this poem will be shared with Ian. Genuinely.

Buy Me a Coffee.

Alternatively, please support his new Substack!

poet. social worker. neither.

poems and ponderings on themes of justice, hope and the more than human world.

By Ian

when the heavens open 

aiming to cleanse this earth with all they hold 

do i stand outside, screaming upwards,

blaming myself for a deluge outside of my control?
 
charging myself with impossible tasks;
 
such as plugging up each cloud 

until rain no longer spills? 


of course not 


i seek shelter;

warm clothes, hot tea, comfy chair 

whether it's an afternoon shower, 

or a week-long monsoon 

i look after myself

i let the rain pass 

just as it has every other time in my life. 


-S-2024 @seekinghopepoetry

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do the meds you take make you gain weight? 

my co-worker asked

innocent to what i'm sure will be many months

before my mental jukebox stops replaying that question


yet as i mulled it over this morning

throwing back the handful of pills that keep me upright

i realised how true it was

these meds have made me gain weight. 


they've stopped me losing litres of blood 

from prevented deep cuts

they've kept my brain in my head

though it's begged me so fiercely to let it paint my bedroom walls

they've even grown it (my brain);

adding a growing, newfound outlook on life

they’ve kept me in this body, and if my Spirit could be quantified;

then its weight would surely exceed every bathroom scale in the world


i am full of so much more love, life and inner peace
(though these may look suspiciously like an XL-Dad bod)


and also, yes, it's true;
i do need to get back to the gym.


-S-2024 
@seekinghopepoetry

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There’s something beautiful about watching one of your favourite artists perform a concert on somebody else’s phone.

Obviously, actually attending said concert would be better. But in a world of debilitating respiratory infections, the rising cost of living, and a more personal diagnosis of ‘getting too old for this shit’; it is becoming harder and harder to support live music.

And so when I found myself watching one of my favourite musicians through the screen of one of my peers’ phones, I felt blessed.

It was a truly kind thing of them to do for me. To hold their phone up during every single song and record them. For me.

So. Kind.

The problem was that I was already at the fucking concert.

I’m 5’7.5”. (The .5” is an important addition here, as I drastically need to overcompensate for other biological measurements.)

And so, as Cameron Whitcomb took the stage on Tuesday night, I found myself in extremely rare territory:

I was a full head taller than the person in front of me.

Consider my flabbers gasted.

I had no idea what to do. I’d never been in this situation before; at least not in a room of fully grown adults. Heck, I consulted a 13-year-old the other week at work and he was about twice my height. It didn’t matter that there were taller people further up from us blocking the view — selfish pricks — I was taking the win.

I was happy with my genetics for the first time in my life.

Actually, I was happy on a Tuesday night for the first time in years.

As Cam began to belt out his first song, I started to feel an odd, warm sensation in my chest. My vision blurred slightly as everything around me began to glow slightly golden. Had I been roofied?

No, to be roofied would be to imply that I could afford a $15 drink for something to actually be slipped into it.

Was this… joy? Was I happy? Holy crap. I think I’m cure—

“Wait a minute. What the fuck is this?”, I heard myself whisper.

My vision didn’t just blur; it became suddenly, inexplicably pixelated. The crisp, three-dimensional reality of the stage was replaced by a grainy, digital rectangular portal. For a terrifying second, I thought the Matrix was breaking. But then I remembered I never really understood that movie, and I needed to come up with a better metaphor.

I thought my brain had finally given up on processing reality and decided to stream the rest of my life via a dial-up connection. A stroke, but like… a hip, new, cool version.

But then I saw the hands connected to the phone, connected to the arms of my, up until recently, new best friend standing in front of me.

My perfect, mildly obscured view was suddenly replaced by a phone. Whatever plans to cease all anti-depressants I’m currently taking were instantly dashed, as humanity once again threw a boot directly at my proverbial nutsack.

I’ll cut her a little slack — I doubt she could see the concert from her height. So she wasn’t double dipping, she was simply shooting up a periscope in an attempt to find land.

Plus it wasn’t just her. Over the next 90 minutes, I became more and more infuriated as my visual field was severely impacted by several mobile phones held aloft between me and stage.

Call me a boomer, or a whiner, or whatever, but seriously?

What is the endgame here?

Are these people actually watching these back? Is she going to sit on the bus tomorrow morning, put her headphones in, and enjoy a shaky, bass-blown recording where the only audible sound is her own rhythmic heavy breathing (accompanied by my whiney voice behind her, occasionally swearing under my breath)?

Maybe.

Maybe she’ll watch those videos daily. Perhaps they’ll be what somehow save her life. I truly hope that’s the case.

Above all else, though? I hope she takes the time to upload everything she recorded to YouTube; so that I can finally watch the concert whilst not in personal fits of rage.

Please help me afford therapy to work on issues that arose at this concert:

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my room-mate has a house plant
a potted fern; life constantly wrestling death 

i see the brown 
the shrivelling

i wonder: what's the point?
he sees the green 

not there now, 
but unfurling 

he waters it daily


-S-2024 

buy me a coffee?

i text a friend my poems

he tells me they make him cry

i hope they hit him late at night

forcing the alcohol from his system

streaming down his cheeks.


that blood might re-enter his heart

air might fill his lungs, and

the love that never stopped surrounding him

would ooze back into every wrinkle of his brain

like cool syrup upon a warm waffle

-S-2024

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I wrote this poem two years ago for a friend who had experienced great loss. Her story will absolutely be used to help others; but at that point in time I wanted her to know it was safe (and appropriate) to heal in her own time.

tread softly in the weeks ahead my friend 


there will be a time for boldness 
where your story directs others; 
guiding them through this chapter 
as it shadows their own lives. 


and, 
i know 
you want so firmly 
to scream your courage at this storm

 
but preserve yourself, seek shelter 
so that when the time is right 
you'll have built a house on firm foundations 
for another to be safe in 


during their darkest night 


-S-2024 @seekinghopepoetry

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Hemingway once wrote;

“Every man has two deaths.

One: when he is buried in the ground,
and 
Two: The last time someone says his name.”


Yet, I would suggest,

that man dies thrice.


You see,

there is a point

in a person’s life

—or more aptly, in their death—

where they stop feeling 

like

Love.


Tender touches become sharp,

with jagged edges.

Sinew replaces life;

displaces comfortable embraces.


Nothing furled can unfurl again,

nothing unbent can be bent.


Decay runs far deeper than

chipped bones and broken teeth;

now felt in feeble moans 

and

unspeakable aches.


An undeniable brittleness 

of the soul.


Yearning for release.


To dance again beneath the stars,
 
       naked and unbound.


-S-2024

Buy Me a Coffee

and if they serve quiche at my funeral

cold or not

you have my full approval

to never think fondly of me again.

to leave during the first song

and, to think

“quiche?? fuck that guy.”

-S-2024

I’ve realised that my guilt — whilst making complete sense in line with my personal story — was very unbiblical.

Unlike me, Jesus doesn’t hold resentments. So when He says I am forgiven, I believe I am completely and wholely forgiven. He doesn’t say it, and then constantly remember the cross/crucifixion when He looks at me.

I delve into it a bit deeper here:

I Wouldn't Bet On It

Good Friday Doesn’t Need Your Guilt

Read more

5 months ago · 9 likes · 2 comments · Sean Corcoran

(If that doesn’t work, try clicking this link here)

Hope this helps.

Happy Easter!

Love.

I like to begin my day holistically.

I find that without a handful of various mental-health medications, a sugar-free energy drink, and a long scroll of social media, my chakras simply aren’t kept in check.

Today was no different.

It is, however, a dangerous time of day for a man of my particular sensitivities. The mind is open, the cynicism that this bleak world demands is momentarily shelved, and one’s capacity for basic pattern recognition is at its lowest ebb.

It was in this state of unearned optimism that I encountered a post from the Sydney Sixers cricket franchise.

I will admit, with a degree of self-abasement that I find difficult to type, that my heart performed a small leap.

The big man was back.

Slightly aroused, I began to wonder if the old 150km/h+ pace was still there. Could it be? Tucked away beneath the slightly-wanky television commentary and the very-wanky probiotic gut-health advertisements.

Two minutes later, I was informed by a reputable-looking masthead that World Peace had been achieved. Holy shit. Considering just how life-changing this news would be for most of humanity, I skimmed the article a little more intently than usual.

Apparently, a series of late-night summits in Geneva had resulted in a unanimous laying down of arms. I felt a profound sense of relief. I thought to myself, “Well, it’s about time”, and briefly considered the logistical implications of a world without borders. I was, for a fleeting moment, a man of hope. I was a believer in the inherent goodness of the global diplomatic apparatus.

I continued to scroll, my soul expanding with every new revelation of human progress.

But alas poor little Yorrick: like Icarus in the metaverse, I scrolled too close to the sun.

The breaking point — the moment the architecture of my delusion finally buckled under the weight of its own absurdity — arrived in the form of a headline concerning the current president of the United States.

Even in my pre-caffeine stupor, the cognitive dissonance was too great. The mind, faced with the impossible, began to backtrack through the morning’s intake.

Because if the Mar-a-Lago resident remained, as ever, a singular monument to human ego and incompetence, then perhaps the world was not at peace. And if the world was still a tinderbox of geopolitical strife, then it stood to reason that a forty-nine-year-old fast bowler was not, in fact, returning to the Sydney Cricket Ground to terrorise the youth of today.

The realisation was a cold shower of sheer, unadulterated shame.

I had been the mark. I had allowed the “engagement alchemists” to play upon my deepest yearnings for sporting nostalgia and global harmony. I had been lured into a performance of gullibility that would be embarrassing in a child, let alone a man who prides himself on a measured, legalistic observation of the world  —  albeit via a skim-read of social media.

This is why April Fools’ Day must be abolished.

It is not merely that it is unfunny — though it is, in a way that makes one pine for the relative sophistication of a knock-knock joke. It is that it weaponises our better nature against us. It turns our capacity for hope into a punchline for a social media manager’s quarterly report.

It is dangerous. It puts our collective mental hygiene at risk. We live in an age where the truth is already a fragile, flickering candle; we do not need the corporate world blowing it out for twenty-four hours just to see if we’ll trip over the furniture.

Enough is enough. I am bigger than my desire to see Brett Lee steaming in to bowl from the Paddington End one last time. I am certainly bigger than my brief belief in the sudden moral enlightenment of the American Right.

But I am not so big that I can forgive the people who made me feel, even just for a fleeting moment, like a man who thinks the world is better than it actually is.

Cancel the day. Return us to the cold, reliable comfort of our standard, year-round disappointments. At least they have the decency to be true.

And Sydney Sixers? Fuck you.

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For years I've felt stagnant in growth

Ignoring this constant ache

Growing pains, if you will, persisting

Begging me to believe in necessary change


My soul, desperate to explode outwards

Encased by a shell that thickens daily

Grown at first to protect me from the world;

Becoming an ironic one-man prison,

trapping me with far worse— 

myself.


Oh God, split this mental cocoon

Allow me to dance and love and feel.

I have spent too long hidden here,

Numbing myself under illusions of self-care


I cannot promise that I will emerge with wings

For there are many more cocoons to endure before my final metamorphosis

I am no caterpillar gifted with speedy change; no colourful spectacle,

Of microwavable evolution


But,

Just like the butterfly

I promise:

I will emerge.

-S-2024 (@seekinghopepoetry)

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