Stealer of face
Engulfs my very being.
Though, regardless of what I desire
I understand that ultimately
I am yours.
I will always be
Yours.

And I may be nothing more.

When I go home and you’re not there
The days won’t start the same
The familiar smell of rain
Makes it unfair
Your life was intertwined with mine
Yet I am cursed to remain
And go on much the same
In your absence
I can’t bear citrus
The garage frightens me
Walking is marred.
Why bother with this, I am mourning a death that has not arrived
But still, pain contorts me
Puppeteering
A grateful final act –
Time is on its side
Make use of night, do not mourn
Thanks to the now and the then
Discourage the future
Close your arms.

How come
Every day
As I walk
Through the room
Which was once living
I glance over
And stop,
Staring at the
Empty leather chair.
And as I freeze
I ponder what
Was once there
With glazed eyes
And whisper
Your name.

Though Death may be calling,
I remain on do not disturb.
For I am not prepared —
For I am not equal to He.

You've just become a photo.
Your name now a void of sorrow,
With little meaning beyond a sound
From the lips of those who remain.

North lay the Sea.
And for me
  To think of something
Other than old bone
Would be a thought (not quite my own)
  As that dumb thing
Lingers and leans at the back of my mind
Begging for attention from all humankind.

Yet still, it remains.
And dances cheerfully,
Wearing a face  (not quite its own)
And bearing a tone
Of uncertainty.

Lips of silver don sarcastic clothes
  With scarcely audible remarks
    Shaking the Sea itself, and
North it remains through it all.

But I cannot remember the last time
Mine had come true.

I don't think I've had a single original experience.
I can't seem to finish a book anymore
I get halfway through one before I start another.
I think my friends can't stand me.
Work terrifies me.
I can’t handle damage to my confidence
Though it is already dangerously low.
I live for weekends but struggle to leave my room to actually live.
It’s reassuring to know that I’m just the same as most others
No one likes their job or even reads at all.
Maybe my friends don’t hate me and I’m wrong.
I always wonder
What my reflection looks like to others
Since I struggle to see beyond the blur.

An emerald stretch of well-trimmed lawn survives amongst the surrounding hill side.
Despite an evident contrast of greens and the dreary wheat-coloured plains,
The self-contained lawn remains indifferent.

Tomorrow I will wake just like today and
Think of what I feared most
Having now become more than
Nightmare or dream
It is in my hands or
Perhaps on my back
I’m a feline I scratch
I want it off
Marring me
Far more than mere skin
My spirit is *****
I want to wash it
Seeing black run down my legs
And hair frizz like a day so familiarly faded,
Yesterday, I yearned.

You forgot my birthday yesterday
Even when I told you that
I'm having a beer for my first drink,
And you laughed at me.
Oh God I should've known that when you handed me
A plastic succulent that still had a price tag under it,
You really had forgotten.
My mum and dad both told me that nothing good could come
From you and I just fighting and me always crying.
But my dog always loved you so I thought you must be good,
Even when the sun itself would run and hide from you.
I guess I should count myself lucky
'cause at least plastic plants don't die.
But I'll still send flowers to your mum on mother's day.

This is a game
To see who laughs first while we stare at each other.
It’s just a joke, you used to do it with your other friends.
I can’t look at you without smiling, so its obvious I will lose but I
Play because you look at only me for a few seconds and we
Share that, and I crave it.
It’s inevitable that I lose
But I didn’t think that meant losing you too
Sometimes, I still stare.

Your gnawing claws of ever black,
Outstretched to grasp the warm
Opening to Our heart.
Your darkened boots and pale face
Feign a pout as though to mourn
That of which you in fact command.

'Who invited you into Our home?'

Webbed bins
Empty leather chair
The tired birds who refuse to sing,
A lonely walking stick and
    The muffled cries from a neighbouring room.
Your bed dividing couches and tables,
Absorbing the living room
With an unaccompanied tick
    And a flood of chrysanthemums.
Bold letterhead proclaiming condolence with
    An air of regret of those who
Hadn’t the time
Hadn’t the chance
Hadn’t the effort
To for one last time
See your face
Chocolate roses excuse the crime
  All too busy when all was fine.

December was remembered for what it brought
Well, more specifically what it stole from us all.
Overwhelmed like a tear in rain –
An engulfing force demanding pain.
Then, colours faded from around
Until there too was no more sound,
  Agony seeped through each room
As flowers too refused to bloom.
What’s left now with no more glee?
Hard to say, you may agree.
  As it came so it went,
  Month followed month
  With no ill intent.
January now, time moves on
Not forgetting what had gone wrong.
One becomes two, and three and four,
Until remembering too becomes a chore.
   Now six later you sit and sigh
   When you know you should instead cry.
You say tears have expired
And are no longer required –
You should be thankful
For what December brought you.

There was a boy
Once disillusioned by the idea of seniority,
Who one day realised his dad might be wrong.
What I heard when he was dying
Takes unusual form in my memories.
A lively spirit masqueraded in a stained shirt.
All too reminiscent of the boy
Who was once the light of my eyes,
But cannot be.
The light had gone out that day.

I've heard the first two,
Though, neither make it clear.
So I wish there was a third
Story which told me why I couldn't see
The obvious end to what we had,
Or more specifically,
What we never got to have.

'Welcome Home'
The words wrapped around the walls
Like the bandages on my body.

To sacrifice what I feel to
Ensure we remain
What we have always been.

Yet I cannot assure
That I can make us what
I know we must be.

If time has yet to ease
What I know to be true,
How am I to guarantee
That I am able to suppress
These feelings which have
Loomed and darkened
Our lives?

An everlasting stain
Of which I am to blame
For the mess
We have made.

How could I forget?
You were often good to me.
Though, never for long.

Each carriage rushes past
Asking me who I want to be -
  Fix my collar,
  Stand taller,
  Hang my bag off of my back with only one strap,
  Hold a book,
  Check my reflection in the stained glass.
As doors pass, so do parts of me,
And what I may be.

There will come a day
When I look at where we once were
And feign a smile, caught in nostalgia, and
Think to myself of what we once were —
There will come a day
When I see you as no more than a poorly developed photograph
Imitating a life which has been long since abandoned.
There will come a day
When I discover truth.

En route to the guillotine of my own construction
I gaze at each glimmer from your earthy eyes and
Cheers my own life in its final chapter –
  No longer wanting to mark the page.

There is nothing I don't know.
Expect you, perhaps.

I want to be the person you write songs about.

Envy a monster within.
To be jealous of what I am not,
Unlike him.
For simply
I am me.

Bells chime awfully loud,
Infiltrating a once clear mind
Now possessed by dings and tolls.
Puffs of blackened smoke accompany incessant whispers
And a uniform stomping of shoes along the busy street of asphalt.
A flood of hat-donning men absorb the road,
As women gaze from dusty panes and disapprovingly nod
At the odd march occurring streets below.
Flags of old fall down as new crests fly high —
Usurping what was known to be true and redefining unity.
Headlines equivocate: 'A Crisis on Flake Street', though,
If patricians did so, they'd've proclaimed freedom for all.
A conflagration of deceit and embellishments runs rampant
And joins those men parading the streets to their clear dismay.