New Transmission

Children starving, bellies bare,
World on fire—do they care?
Putin storms with blood and flame,
Leaders play a deadly game.
We are all the same.
 

Oil and money, old, ill loaded,
Future sold and truth corroded.
Trump cries “Great again!”—a lie,
While countless voices bleed and die.
We are all the same.
 

Went into Labour, birthed Sir Keir,
Two-tier dreams, the poor still fear.
OAPs grow cold again,
Different mask, the same old men.
We are all the same.
 

Veterans starving, voices gone,
Innocent lives keep marching on.
While leaders fight for greed and fame,
The people die—
Yet we’re all the same.
But you’re to blame.
 

Rowling shouts with poisoned pen,
Fear disguised as care again.
But listen close—your script’s all fake,
You don’t know what it means to break.
Men in wigs in women’s spaces,
Norman Bates behind the faces.
Predators plot—but hear me true,
That’s not trans, it’s never you.
We are all the same.
 

I was broken, scarred with pain,
Not by queer, not by gay,
But by white cis men who stained,
Ghosts that haunt me to this day.
Still we rise and still we claim,
Every life is worth the same.
Strip the masks, unpick the shame,
Different voices—one bright flame.
We are all the same.
 

While bombs fall and children cry,
We fight on screens for reasons why.
The world is bleeding, yet we choose
To wage a war on toilet use.

What if the things that once saved you—cartoons, pop songs, rebellion—couldn’t anymore? What if you had to find a new language to survive?

 I write from the quiet spaces where memory and transformation meet.
My work explores survival without romanticising pain, and reinvention without erasing what came before.
I believe in humour as medicine, performance as ritual, and language as a way to make meaning from what might otherwise remain silent.

The Cartoon Didn’t Save Me is a gathering of poems shaped by contradiction: tenderness and absurdity, discipline and chaos, marble and bubblegum.
These pieces honour the selves I have been while reaching toward possibility.
When I’m not writing, I’m listening — to intuition, to pattern, to what flickers at the edge of knowing.
I trust that poetry can hold what life cannot always explain.
I write not to be normal, but to be honest. 

For anyone who ever tried to outrun their past—and found themselves instead.