Errors (Guest post)

I drove into smog and traffic… I thought ‘another typical London day’

But different this time… Grenfell

Instant thoughts… ‘terrorism’

But no… human error and sub-standard materials

We are first world… but build as if third world

UK… as always reactive, never proactive



Our first guest writer was motivated to write by his daughter. This poem was inspired by a drive into London the other week.

For the original post and AMTR’s blog.


For more information on The Milk of Human Kindness.

Remember, poems, prose and essays inspired by humanity can be submitted to

Include a short biography, reason for writing and/or link to your own website/blog.


Image credit. 


New neighbours

I watch him take several drags at a time

hang baby-grows on the line

take baby for a long drive,

I watch him wonder ‘Is it mine?’

and tie stars to a mobile with twine.


Whilst she eyes that baby shower wine

wonders if shut eyes are a crime

craves long lost time,

counting to teatime then bedtime,

each stolen bath, sublime.


Yet her cheeks still shine,

even if he’s been deceived by his hairline.



Image credit.


MHK = The Milk of Human Kindness. For more information on what this project aims to achieve and how to submit, click here.

Project: The Milk of Human Kindness

“Yet do I fear thy nature;

It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness” – Lady Macbeth, Act I Scene V.


Lady Macbeth saw it as a character flaw, yet in these troubling times it seems to be our only redeeming quality. In line with my 100th post I am starting a writing project on My Screaming Twenties – The Milk of Human Kindness.

With this project, which will run until the end of September, I endeavour to write and share the writing of others, about humanity at its lowest and finest. Poems, prose and essays which will range from being humorous, heartwarming and heartbreaking, all to celebrate and own the humanity we have seen attacked, time and time again.


If you would like to submit a piece of yours:


Attach a copy of your submission and in the email tell me your name/pen name, your motivation for writing/submitting to the project and leave a link to your site or blog if applicable.

All rights will remain with the author.


Pieces should capture humanity in some way; whether it be a random act of kindness, story of struggle or a snapshot of daily life.

I will be posting pieces on Wednesday and Sunday evenings (BST), weekly.


I am incredibly excited to see what we can achieve.

Please do get involved and reblog/share.



Like the Project’s Facebook page – The Milk of Human Kindness

Follow the project on Twitter – Projectmhk





Photo by Kristopher Roller on Unsplash


It had the potential to be ground breaking. Or did it?

My intention was not for my 100th post on My Screaming Twenties to be an update. In truth, I had no intentions.

I’ve been quiet of late. Quietly scrolling through my reader, observing words, wit, wisdom and woe from an uncomfortable distance. Uncomfortable because I, a month ago now, was in the fray. I now sit, in a deep blue bath saturated in gold dust Lush manufactures, wallowing in my lack of impulse and discipline with the world’s smallest violin. My notepads are not without lines, stories and commentary; they just all remain unfinished. Outlined in black ink but nowhere near shaded to perfection. Not whilst fires rage, families cry and terror seeks to divide. My words are plenty, emotions plenty. Yet stunted.

I live in Britain. I am an English teacher. I flinch at the news and I put other people’s children first. And in marrying the two, I observe Macbeth’s milk of human kindness we all thought lost.

With this, I am launching a series on My Screaming Twenties –  The Milk of Human Kindness. What will be produced, I hope, will be poems, prose and commentary on what you and I witness daily – humanity, at both it’s lowest and finest. I have written another post (The Milk of Human Kindness) setting out my intentions and how people can submit their own work to feature.

With this project, which will run until the end of September, I seek to exert some ownership upon our humanity which many try to strip away from us, day by day.




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Eyes trained solely

on the woman who seeks

to steal my soul

leeching the life

force I felt

when you were inside me

beside me.


Was captivity commissioned?

Or a calculated mission?



Image credit. 




Footsteps in a room,

 shouldn’t look,

shouldn’t stare,

just can’t help it,

the smile you wear.

Cuff of your shirt,

open collar,

hooded dark eyes,

look, stare.

Forbidden attraction,

codes, regulations,

still you smile,

take up a seat

beside me.

Footsteps in a room,

caught my stare, smile,

keep in touch,



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in my head,

words with myself

and everybody else,

words which penetrate and slip

through the thin veil

cloaking this world

and another,

another I’ve created

within four cranial walls.

Syllables scream,

each one pulling at the lips

of my inner voice,

a voice desperate

to be heard,

not churned

into empty statements,

packaged produce

of a world

hellbent on securing

social conformity.

In this other world,

my inner self,

intrinsically me,

is free,


to dance,

to sing

and live

what we call fantasy,

nothing’s tangible.

Through a fog

standards and loved ones

have blown over,

billowing cruelly

from mouths

which profess they know you, truly,

from politicians who say they care

and strangers who like to stare.

My words,

my voice


until no longer heard

except from within,

my four cranial walls.



Image credit. 

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