David Lacey

Rookie - 224 Points (2/3/87 / Middlesbrough)

Biography of David Lacey

'We don't read and write poetry because it's cute, we read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.' - Dead Poet's Society

Born in Middlesbrough, North East England. I studied Art, Philosophy and Classical Civilization at college, all of which have had an influence on my work in various mediums. I went on to study Contemporary Fine Art practice at York St John University after a year failing miserably at being a Theology student.

I now reside in Newcastle upon Tyne playing mandolin and guitar in the infamous Laundry Basket and doodling away the days in an office dreaming of the time when I can live from ink and paints alone.

I explore themes of mind, consciousness and exploration of inner spaces alongside narratives of folklore and mythic structure. Symbols hold great meaning for all of us, each as unique as a fingerprint in their correspondences to each and everyone. As an artist I enjoy learning from and developing the relationships various symbols hold in our hearts and minds.

I hope to one day own a spacious studio space where I can fling inks, write and paint to my hearts content.
I also hope people enjoy my poetry and if not enjoy it then at least to question it and give it a moments thought. Sometimes I look back and have to unwrap the riddles I have left myself. I hope the symbols and stories found within can be to people something individual to themselves.

Some of my poetry becomes lyrics for my music some of which can be found at https: //soundcloud.com/david_lacey and also by typing my name into Youtube.

Images of my artwork can be viewed at


David Lacey.

PoemHunter.com Updates

Beauty Unknown

Seducing undertones, her voice lights new life into my world.
Her form lay as a mystery to the imagination, she teases
You with a coyful play on words, the irony of the situation as
Always goes unheard. Drawing out her sentences with playful giggles
She’s punishing you with innuendo. It played upon my mind for hours,
The voice of a ghost, the ghost of a girl, a girl that will never be ours.
What beauty unknown lay attached to those angel toned words I may never know,

[Hata Bildir]