**** the fens and all they hold
(Which isn't very much).
**** the lack of things to do–
The emptiness and such.

**** the loneliness I feel,
And **** the people too!
**** the lack of anything
There is to be or do.

**** the brown and muddy fields,
And **** the constant rain.
**** the price it costs escaping
Here by bus or train.

**** the way the nightlife ends
At about 1 A.M
**** anyone who disagrees
(Especially **** them!).

**** the lack of places
It would be fun to be,
And– since I'm now a part of it–
I guess also **** me!

I haven't wrote in quite a while,
So I thought I'd make this song,
But it's possible I've lost my style,
And my rhyme schemes gone all wrong.

The cadence is no longer there,
And the melody's gone flat;
Iambic's left without a care,
And this poem's turned to tat.

But perhaps it doesn't matter
Just as long as I have fun;
Though my words may clunk and clatter,
I'll be happy when I'm done.

his words take my breath away
his stars are not my stars
and there are worlds in-between

so i come back and i sit
and trace all the letters
slow, slow

i let my heart wander
just far enough
to feel the mountain air

singing feels like flying
from the pines
on the mountain

his words take my breath away
and i don't mind much

Sometimes I wonder if I
Have forsaken my words
For the sake of a rhyme.
If it so happens that my
Mixture of nouns and verbs
Don't keep in pleasant time
Anymore, then I only
Have myself to blame
(I hope you'll forgive me),
But I hope that you'll see
Something that feels the same
Between the words that should be
Written ten feet high in burning light
And, lest there should be any doubt,
Written over and over again
As if caught between madness and delight,
And a need to find an escape out
From her name, her name, her name, her name

I wrote a poem, just for you,
Wrought out of pain and tears.
You took the pain, and wrote one too;
It multiplied our fears.

I wrote a poem, filled with joy,
And gave you that as well.
You wrote one too, and helped destroy
Our paranoia's spell.

The Same Table

We are all sitting
At the same table.
Some of us have more food,
                               more guns,
                               more oil,
                               more everything.
Some of us will laugh more,
                     will cry more,
                     will sigh more,
                     will feel more.
Some of us will die young,
                      will die old,
                      will die willingly,
                      will never live properly at all.
Some of us wear red,
                     wear blue,
                     wear black,
                     wear all the colours of the rainbow,
Some of us have light skin,
                     have dark skin,
                     have smooth skin
                     have scars criss-crossing our bodies,
But none of us
Sit high enough
          To look down
     On anyone.

"There's a time and a place" the gravedigger said,
"For humour, and this isn't it."
But the thought process currently stuck in my head
Is: "Maybe it is. Just a bit."

The businessmen said, in no uncertain tones,
That my silliness simply won't do,
And quickly went back to their laptops and phones,
But I still think the opposite's true.

There's no harm at all in increasing the stock
Of the cheerfulness in this cruel world,
And, often, my humour has been like a rock
While the pain inside me has unfurled.

I cannot explain why, when I start to cry,
That, sometimes, I laugh while I do.
In the depths of despair, where men want to die:
I can see the ridiculousness too.

So if I should be sad, and you see me laugh,
Just know I'm still dying inside,
And that I simply have to follow this path,
Or tears will flow out in a tide.