Selected Poetry by Benjamin Blye

Photo Source: Unsplash

CONCRETE STARS

We grew up believing

streetlights were constellations

.

That sirens were weather.

That every corner shop

held the same three ghosts:

the lonely man,

the exhausted mother,

the kid trying not to become either.

At night

the estate glowed orange.

Foxes moved like rumours

between parked cars.

Somewhere, always,

glass breaking.

Somewhere, always,

music too loud.

And somehow

we still found beauty there.

In cigarettes shared outside parties.

In laughing so hard

your ribs hurt.

In cheap trainers

hitting basketball courts

under summer rain.

People talk about places like ours

as if they only produce damage.

But they forget:

flowers still force themselves

through cracked concrete.

THE MIC STAND OUTSIDE THE PRISON

There’s a microphone stand

outside the prison gates.

Nobody knows who left it there.

It leans slightly sideways

like it’s waiting

for somebody brave enough

to speak first.

Cars pass.

Rain gathers in the metal joints.

Inside,

men pace circles

small enough

to memorise.

Outside,

people scroll endlessly

through lives they don’t recognise anymore.

Sometimes I think

the whole country feels like this:

everybody trapped somewhere,

nobody sure

whether they are inside

or outside the walls.

The microphone never moves.

Still waiting

for a voice

that sounds honest enough

to matter.

Benjamin Blye is a poet from Essex and the creator of a 5,000+ member community on Facebook, Poetry That Speaks, a growing poetry and spoken word community focused on honest expression and real human stories. His writing explores memory, silence, modern Britain, late-night cities, and the emotions people often struggle to say out loud. His work has previously appeared in independent publications and has also been featured on BBC Essex.