Where does something begin but somewhere? The question always is - where is somewhere.

My father laid out the core of expression to me as a child, "If you never talk, no one knows how you feel and nothing gets solved".

It took me twenty-eight years to appreciate the importance of something so simple and yet so important.

Someone once said to me, "I didn't have it as hard as you." My reply was simply my mother gave me a shovel, I did not have to dig as deep as I did. And nothing is as true.

The greatest enemy you will ever face is yourself. No one knows how to lie to you better, blind you, how to turn you back and your ears deaf, narrow your outlook on life, hollow out your life; fill you with hate and deceive you that the only way to survive is to hide and repress your emotion.

There are two people who I owe my life. My Father and his heart to large to be held by the universe with a love bound in uncompromising duty, care and understanding, who if he was a lesser man would have probably buried his son long ago or seen him put behind bars for a large portion of time. A loving influence that even in the dark could not be entirely extinguished.

The second is my old English teacher from school, Mick Pace, who saw the potential in a quiet kid's poetry homework, provided encouragement and later suggested submitting for publication.

He had read a cheat at homework; a thirty line edit, chop, swap and rewording of the song called "One" by Metallica into a poem. I could not admit it. It felt like a betrayal of Mick's enthusiasm and this itself ignited a thought. What if I tried to write?

After fifteen poems of what would probably make rather good Death Metal lyrics, the anger dulled into a journey of self expression and resulted in my first ever poem being published "I Remember". A teachers gift to a child; the encouragement to write without judgement or fear. An outlet, which in later years kept me alive.

I did not always write and for some years I did not. At eighteen hate made it's throne, strengthened the demons I had not spoken about and repression became the new strength along with emotional control, adaptation, manipulation and other skills primed more for seeing life as a war and boundaries where to be pushed, pushed and pushed and when you thought that was it, pushed some more.

Somehow those early writings refused to die. A year ago I decided to share my writings no longer just with close friends but whoever came across them.

The Devil Wears A Mechanical Heart is a warning. If we repress we become devils whilst expression makes us human. In recent years I have taken my expression into other mediums and this is by now means limited.

Expression is not an approval junkie or full of rules, railways lines, boxes or pandering to judgement.

Expression has no limits.

Enjoy it or hate it. It is what it is.