Tiresome love.
A slow rot,
A loud silence,
A true heart.

Can you not justify it with words?
Or has it all been too much?
I'm raw from scars,
but I am never done.

If this is so poignant,
then ask yourself why?
The attention you muster may suit you,
but it was a veritable virtual vixen of yourself that craved such a thing.

You, well you linger lustfully toward me.
In truth a pungent and soulful affinity persists in binding
this, at times, adverse but ultimately
resounding, purest of love.

So tiresome love?
No.
In the end it can only ever be
Worthy love.

I can see behind those rocks.
Beyond the solid facade.
They don’t fool me.
You’re eroding day by day.

You may beat scissors,
but remember I've got paper.
Deep within the rock pool,
there lies a spectrum.

He held his white flag high half heartedly a while ago,
yet still the silence persists.
Any words I have are drowned out in silence.
Space makes the heart grow fonder…
then continues to eat you alive.

When you are put in a box,
that’s all you have.
All you think.
All you live.
All you want.

Outside the box are bigger boxes,
full of hope and generosity.
Destiny walks the street holding fates hand,
so make escape the key,
and you will be destined to find your fate in the bigger boxes.

At an age where the key to the door is presented,
it’s a shame.
It’s also the age your heart sells itself easy.
So easy your mind rots in agony,
and will not be true to itself.

I can’t cling on to nothing words,
I can’t deal with the ambiguity if any,
I can’t live a life with the basis being you.
I can’t live in hope.
Hope is fear.

That’s being true to myself.
The truth rips me apart.
The truth is it's idiocy.
Your boat was harboured,
and had no plans on sailing the waves of uncertainty.

How can you win a heart that has already been won?
The harsh truth that made me clutch at loose words.
The truth also is you’re not in the bigger box.
I can’t deny, even though I walked past your door,
my heart is camping out on the doorstep.

All my days are empty and the pages of my
diary are all silver foil,
With nought but an inky black snake,
Carving its way through the days,
They come at me quicker each year,
But yet I still reflect upon what I’ve achieved,
And ask myself where it has all gone?

I find myself sitting in this dark room,
With only padding as my witness,
The answer soon becomes clear,
As I sit in this chair that persists on clasping me in
Its jaws,
The lights seem to dim and it floods back.

Nothing could stand in my way previous to this,
The blue shrills followed me everywhere and cried,
Cried like I did that night,
They led me here seperated only by a cross and thread.


Forgive me father.

Forever in your debt, gratitude is priceless,
Delivered the longest breath I’ll ever receive,
Scales of love and bonds of steel,
So elaborate they defy the feeble mind.

Words long deserved,
Lined with moist emotion,
Onto paper that becomes a canvas,
A shrine for your work,
Because my love is silent.

The candle will continue to burn,
This? A mere flicker in the wind.
If faith is needed I will bow,
If I could take it from you I’d bear the burden,
My life as a pawn I’d sign,
Don’t write us off yet.

That love made in February,
Turned into the boy, the man before your eyes.
Was I all you expected to be? Have I let you down?
This man is a complete works waiting to be bound,
Your son.

I swear I’ll be everything you wanted,
I owe you life.
The tears that stream heal deep,
Bottle them during daylight,
The evening is my showcase for them, ticket for one.
This script is not my work.

Percentages, percentages,
A sinister wager for life,
Coming from the educated quack complete with degrees,
Worthless in all accord.

No one deserves this plague of humanity,
Least not you, feeding the five thousand.
If you hurt her I’ll never forgive you,
My sun blown out,
My seas vapourised,
My world implode,
Into despair so deep,
Even the reaper would take his own.

The most cancerous aspect being
Useless.Is this my purgatory?
To sit and watch,
Hope.
Menial tasks are hoped on,
Where does this leave me?

Joy and tears conjured, the past,
These eighteen years have been an honour,
My children will seek advice from the same oracle as I,
And receive the same attributes of such a gentle human
Instilled into me.

If I grow to be half the people you both are,
My work on this earth is done.
Yes, there is a time, and when that time comes,
Let me be less naive and fragile to this cruel world.
This time is not current.

But every rock can be cracked,
‘I’m not leaving you lot yet’
Cracked.
And I know you’re not, otherwise,
I’d never see my carpet again.