My poem is a topic of sadness wanting and emptiness, if my heart breaks it's not the way you envisage.
You reached me with your verse a tide connected my topic out there to yours.
Our letters and words entwined like I felt something as you did,
In a time or place we don't know. Out of prose. I saw your wisdom and it inked my page.
There's a train of thought that carries words from one to another.
I was at the station patiently waiting for it to stop.
You got off.

Theres a place where I go,
its harmony and bliss and worries roam like clouds over someone elses head,
my footsteps are smaller, I'm lighter and happiness is here.
This place is a secret garden, there are others here too.
They are not my friends, yet there is comfort in their vacant stares.
They are floating too, high on forgetfulness.
Masking some other unfortunate reality that we can not escape.
Once the gate locks its difficult to remember why its so bad here.
Why my "happy" place is darkened by recreational neglect and uncomfortably bright sounds.
Reality is just an echo in my heart.
My want to go home fights my urge to stay and it rips through me. It always wins.
Theres a trick that the magician hasnt shown me yet.
I want to go home, but here I forget.

It hurts to see your feeble bones draped with colourless skin,
your eyes sunken back into your soul,
your smile withers at the edges and theres a tremble in your talk.

I miss you although your not gone,
I miss the way you only ever rotted on the inside,
I want to reverse the evil axis of time.

There is no sympathy without loss,
and without loss there is hope,
a dark deathly tale of hope.

a rain shower will not mend your wilted flower so I keep dry,
whilst onlookers fail to understand why my heavens wont open.
I remember you, the way the sun still shines.

She's sick to her stomach of your ******* promises,
Of the nights you promised to bring happiness and brought pain.
She swallowed you up in the pit of her being
And you Gargled inside her making her spit and splutter,
She's in the gutter.
And while she's down you pump your poison through her veins with nothing to gain, numbing her brain.
Yet again, you mask the pain.

Can a she be a she without a he?
Can a stranger define sexuality?
Points and whispers are they all worth our while?
Or are days made simpler wearing denial?

Shadows of judgement cast an iron view,
Chatters and mutters of "look, is it true?"
Worries of being out or going in,
Knowing whether to cleanse or live in sin.

Underground parties let freedom rejoice,
Open your heart and give way to your voice.
Society judges all of the time,
But my sexuality will always be mine.

What I ink to my page is not poetry,
There is not rhythm or rhyme, nor reason.
The empire state is no structure to my art.


What stains my page is not creativity,
Squiggles and lines leave marks from my mind.
The blank canvas does not lead to my masterpiece.


Words are my patchwork quilt,
Adjectives and nouns thread together my memoirs.
There's no glamour in my prose.


What I ink to my page is not poetry,
nor is it my intellect or wisdom.
What I ink to my page is life.

You can not feel the temperature in the pools of my soul,
The cool stare peers out onto the life I could not have,
the life I did not lead.
sometimes I grieve.

Behind those open lids lives a history of wishes and dreams,
never accomplished but no longer missed,
childhood sparkles like glitter and gold
my stories untold.

untold stories of parks and rivers linger in my mind,
trying to find the roots, thats where it all begins, i think?
in a time or place that child was me,
it was not here, I was not free.