Reece Beckett

Reece Beckett is a young poet, filmmaker, film critic and music producer. Soon to be going to University, he focuses on using his free time to contribute to Taste of Cinema and Cinematary, writing poetry, listening to music and reading plenty. He hopes to work in many creative fields, but feels quite at home with poetry as an outlet for now.

Day to Day

Depression self induced, self prophesied,

I lost my mind, I’m bleeding out and still

stuck in Stockholm syndrome

Never grown, remained the same since my father left

There’s a man I wish I’d known, three year old kid scared to death and never going home 

Always biding time alone

Living in a hierarchy, so far from the throne

Letting out a groan when I leave my comfort zone

Anxiety imprisoning, my pillow tightly sewn

I condone staying asleep ‘cause I’m afraid to be awake

My bones ache,

Scrape like tectonic plates in an earthquake

Shattered, my brain matter splattered on a wall 

Staying in all the time, like a drug on withdrawal

Know I lost it all, my drawl turning to a desperate crawl 

Never enthralled, I no longer care for much 

Stuck inside, talking but never saying a bunch,

Haven’t eaten for a week, skipped on every lunch 

Relying on depression, the only remaining crutch

Opportunity

Claims that our opportunities are equal and the same

As if the poor don’t have to sweat ten times more for the same 

And usually in the rain, forced to refrain from complaining

Or the cost is a job lost.

You’re not maintaining life, 

stuck in a frame or the first level of the same game

I remember my dad blaming me for our car stolen,

Overnight, turned out the light 

so the thief knew no one was patrolling

Car gone, 

thousands down the drain

 means thousands more to try to gain 

I had to thieve just to eat, 

tell me how opportunity’s the same,

Disillusioned with life, remember being told that hard works pays off in the long run 

So why is it that my father worked for all of everyday

And poverty was still the outcome?

And why is it that the stress depressed him so much 

that he compressed his love to hate 

and turned to drinking pain away 

every time he had to start another day?

“Opportunity’s the same”; a lie 

told by the rich to try to gain 

the labour of those he saw below 

Through sun, fog, rain and snow

In hope their sons and daughters may

Live without fear, maybe without beer

And avoiding the same stuff that stole their souls.

It’s all a smokescreen, 

look close and see your reflection in it

No wonder I’m morose, 

Look at the yarn they’re busy spinning

Living a lie; I guess at least I’m passing time 

Feel like I’m losing my mind, 

The good in me is trying to thrive 

But I think it died and left a corpse behind

on a nine to five.

It’s suicide, 

find me a working class family with pride

Who are glad to be alive whilst working in a mine

And I’ll prove it’s just a lie, a fallacy or a disguise.

We’ve been misguided by a guise.

Beauty

I can feel it passing by, rushing away with the waves

Paralysed just watching, let out a prayer for better days

I can feel the world enclosed, my mind is meek and so morose

The beauty passing all the time, an open door that quickly closed.

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