As the title may suggest this is my journey, a pathway from chaos to order told through poetry.  It’s an exciting, affecting, and meaningful story.  An interesting read for anyone to enjoy. I also believe it has the power to encourage anyone who is trying to find their place in the world, who may be lost searching for meaning, a story with answers to a better life.

The journey begins with chapter 1 ‘Ill Fated Energy’ written about episodes of mental confusion, mania and breakdowns. ‘Seeing Death’ describes a suicide attempt. For a time, I was what I can only describe myself as a street urchin, living a crazy life. If I wasn’t ‘fucking, thieving or fighting’, as was our saying, I was in prison and going nowhere very quickly as described in ‘Troublesome’ chapter 2.

Chapter 3, ‘Penetrating Words’ I’m trying to understand the opposite sex with lust, heartbreak, and betrayal.

I start to listen to my conscience in Chapter 4 ‘Winds of Change’ as my soul cried out for meaning. I plead with God to enter my life and He pushes me to seek out answers, looking where I least wanted to look, at myself.  From this, I found therapy, one of the toughest battles I’ve been through. However, also the most rewarding. Much of this chapter reflects on my therapeutic process. The poem ‘Thy Will be Done’ is written to my daughter which I wrote after one tough session.  During therapy I felt the chains coming off one by one with each session. ‘Wild Winds’ is written about my therapist Dr. Melany Ball, and where I was as we departed ways.

‘Into the Light’ the 5th and final chapter, where it all starts falling together, and I share the answers to my deepest questions.  I also find true love with a tall blonde, who looked at me twice and inspired me in abundance to write of falling in love and the answers to transformation. Finally, I could not have been able to write this book or face my problems without reading 12 RULES FOR LIFE by Dr. Jordan B. Peterson and A MANS SEARCH FOR MEANING by Dr. Viktor E. Frankl.  I thank God for their wisdom, care, and encouragement.  Thank you and enjoy, K.L. Smith.

Please feel free to take a look on amazon and leave a review.

(links provided)


I’m Free

My reality, I submit onto the spirit
as feelings form into tears
with each tear I taste
I realize again faith is sufficient.

It's difficult to accept matters of this world
flesh will more than condemn
hope slides seeming all to to be lost.

His blood again has cleansed me
spirit lead me where I need to stand
raindrops become my rhythm
this world can keep its merry band.

Through his painful attacks
my arms reached out in praise
I need not a silver cloud
nor even the wings of an angel
to remind me who I serve to know
whom is my Lord.

He was flogged and tortured.
He carried His cross.
His blood shed for me
I’m not imprisoned by guilt
but through his love like the truth
I'm free.

At the Cybeles Fountain

I take in all we have assembled, as we stand here hand in hand, 
once again.
I take heart, for the next sexenial, plenty of ink still in
my pen.

In the splash of fountain water the lions raw for you to
now bloom.
Grasp the pearl, you have been the bride I'm always your

The streets they play a symphony, and in an orchestral backing
I'm aware we share the same fears and dreams.
And in Cybeles vocal cry,  I know I'll never let go
of the seems


These Screams

Are these screams from inside my mind?

Or out there?

Is it the theif?

The scent of ravaged swine in the air?

It conflicts though my tongue remains straight.

In this cursed world.

The truth they hate.

Their aim, the unblossomed an it's dark.

Sanity has boarded.

I cannot watch it debark.

The dark souls lurk. 

I hear what they dont say.

So much evil.There must be a God to whom to pray.

The rivers are lost, hills cry with are failure to fight.

Who am I?

If I cant write.


The Introverted Man

He likes the lights low lit, his style low key
His thinking is complicated, wise as the mystical oak tree.

In the sounds of silence my stillness is bold
He knows energy, see's vibes
I stare at my tea untill it turns cold.

Should you ever outshine the master?
Like the eagle from the mountains revered for his pastor.

Moving in the symphony notes of life,
searching words with his pen, like a woodsman with his knife.

'It's ok' He said, the time I need to recharge in silence.
There's a hustle in my mind.
I see desire, I hear the chug of red wine.

She thought I did not love her, I'm loyal to the core
Doing nothing alone is doing, I love her all the more.



a desert turn green

I saw a desert turn green.
But no letters today, and the phone rang out.
I picked up a pen so I didnt scream.
I made it rhyme, so I wouldnt shout.

I looked out the window in night,
as she left me in a dream.
I could see things clear from the moonlight
I saw a desert turn green.

The Bullet

I dont know what you want. Friends waste my time anyway.

Someday I'll be gone.
My words though, will carry on.

I write, as I find it hard to say.


I cant explain where my interests are born, but I need them like the night.

I'm blessed in the eyes of danger.
Though I struggle with a stranger.

Interaction still my hardest fight.

I often feel more than I'm supposed to.

In my eyes the lights are more than blinding.
My mind, it's still finding.

The noises, don't stop where yours do.

Piercing pains in my head,I refuse to go insane.

I reach out to the holiness.
Where solitude meets the loneliness.

The bullet, will not travel through my brain.

In my craft or sullen art

By Dylan Thomas

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

Princes at War

A prince, but never to be a pauper.
Sold the family crown, and headed to California.

Our dear King Charlie had praised the fab four.
Now two princes gone to war.

The Queen is turning in her grave, surely Dianna in dismay.
The dog bowl prince, had too much to say.

Can peace talks ever begin? Princes at war.
Or another broken necklace, and one more slap to the jaw.