A drunken soul asked me:
Will you marry me?
His words slurred however his intentions were not blurred as they spilled out of my delicate sleepers mind.
Suddenly that one question seemed all too real to me
and I smiled.
I smiled a thousand suns and a million other galaxies because of the one question.
Will you marry me?

Suddenly the images of a bright white wedding dress bombarded my vision,
the silk like clouds,
and a prominent black suit stood by its side.
Faceless yet I knew who it was.
Then the vivid daydream ended,
and I found myself sat on my bed,
in front of a phone,
typing,
'not quite yet we're too young baby **'.
Yet that answer felt wrong.

Saying yes would mean the world to me.
But being 16 is a number that marriage would regret ever meeting.
Age is just a number right?
But when it implies the world's prominent questions...
Age is a limit.
So I said maybe.

Maybe.
Maybe one day.
Maybe today.
Maybe next week, next month, next year.

But for now,
how about we settle with a promise.
I promise my dear to always love you,
cherish you.
I will never cheat.
Lie.
Or steal your love.
I am yours and you are mine.

Will I marry you?
Yes.
Just some other time.

My delicate sleeper has a twisted mind,
tales of his soulmate weaved with a soft terror that fails to shake his soul.
Surrounded by soulless figures with no character.
Floating.
Chanting.
Their knives of satan embedded deep within kin.

My delicate sleeper has a twisted mind,
the beautiful gold embroidery enclosed in an attractive horror.
His eyes hold the blue of holy water,
his dreams hold the blades of lucifer.

I love it.
I love my little delicate sleeper.
I wouldn't have him any other way.

Love to some is a metaphorical creature
it moves in the night possessing those who sleep with another,
it lives inside everyone whether it be platonic or not.
This metaphor of an iridescent emotion is not a force to reckon with,
it breaks people into two,
controls them driving them completely insane,
it hurts the innocent putting their self confidence to shame.

Love to some is a burden,
it burns your insides to oblivion.
"mother it hurts" she isn't there to help because this internal pain isn't something that Jim could fix.
In fact Jim will make it worse.

love to some is a quick release,
a fix,
a drug,
a metaphorical object mental illness that wont leave their mind body and soul.

love my dear quick run and hide,
some of them want to use you .
What they use you for is either the worst thing in the world,
or the best thing in the entire universe.

However love for me?
is non-exsistent

Who are you and where do you come from?
Your face is not familiar to us,
Nor is ours familiar to you.

You ponder around these streets in wonder,
As if that guy in the sky with the debatable existance created a world of some sort,
A new world.

Your skin is tanned and your eyes are brown,
Not like ours.
We're not the same.
Our skin is pale and heavenly and our eyes are an icy blue.

Your choice of clothing is foreign,
Your shirt isnt cut in half nor are your jeans,
Your stomach and legs are hidden unlike ours.

I dont know where you come from.
So tell me,
Who  are  you.

Distance
a single word with one single superpower
to divide two souls
preventing them from ever multiplying.

Oh distance you son of a gun
you *murderer
you soul severer
you lacerate love as if it was simply a piece of paper

you sever me as if i were merely nothing
you monster
you *******

I want to be with him yet your intentions are to only split us apart

I can never love
I can only lose
all because of you

Distance.

When I saw her I couldn't do anything.
I couldn't feel anything.

You

You stood there with her, caressing her like you did to me.
I was told not to watch you anymore.

Dont

I watch the house everyday from the train.
I watch you anyway.

Control

I sat on my bed,
I stayed until I fell asleep but I could still feel the hatred for her even in my dreams.

My

Over and over I hear her voice
Over and over and over

Mind

The doctor said its only temporary, that I wouldn't have to worry anymore.

"where did it go?"
one half said,
"it ran away with the fairies"
the other spoke.
I giggled at the two,
for the halves are my brain, aren't you like this too?
The voices swimming ever since I was five,
they are the very reason why I feel so alive.
They're coated in black,
their eyes a thick red,
I don't know where they came from but they're living in my head.

"Arabella my dear. why so sad"
its not my fault,
Its the voices dad.
They beat me and hurt me,
tear me into two,
tell me all the good things about dying too.

I love my little voices but wouldn't it be great,
if one day I woke up to find that they had gone?

But they have returned after a month and boy aren't they glad,
for they love to see me,
to see me sad.

Fingertips drumming.
Breath slow.
Soft humming.
Hymn reciting.
Giggling, because I know its all a lie.

Breath quickening.
Pen scribbling.
Black ink spreading like wild fire,
Words only I understand.
Doctors think its a reason to up the dosage.

Tick tock.
Drip drop.
Splish splash.
***** ***** *****.
Wash the water make it clean,
Swallow the pills make me normal.

Tomorrow is a new day.
Lets start it all over again.

The way she danced was like a water lily upon tainted liquid.
Her skin a tanned ivory,
as she spin's the scars of a broken past reveal,
but they do not seem to ruin the immaculate image of this delicate​ orchid.
Her movements are that of the soft sea breeze,
that soft sea breeze seems foreign to those who's mind speak judgement.

Her eyes are glimmering sapphires embedded into her skull.
I could stare at her all day but that action means playing a dangerous game.
For you cannot look into her eyes for too long,
She will capture your​ heart effortlessly and fail to return it.

Her freckles​ paint a symphony across her slender figure,
Her beauty marks glide and spin across her skin,

One on her jawline.

One just above her right breast.

One on her carefully crafted hip.

She dares to dance like a soft angel.
A pastel yellow in a sea of crimson red.
You make the world light up little tiny dancer,
so please my delicate little orchid,
dance the night away.

He wakes up.
He doesn't feel a thing.
He leaves for work in a rush.
He works with a hush painted across His lips.
He is fine.
He is okay.
He cried today but He is okay I assure you.
He drinks His pain.
He swallows His pride.
He is fine.
He is not fine.
He is okay.
He is not just any old He.
He is Him.
For Him to be Him He has to be who He really is.
He has to be him.
He is more than okay.
He is fine.
He has time to fix your crimes I assure you.
He paints words on a social media page to show you, His audience, He adores you.
He is a faceless race of His own.
He is fine.
He is okay.

When you look at us do we make you shiver?
Do we look like murderers all grouped together?
When you see us dressed in our best does that mean we are asking for it?
When you hear our cries are we doing it just for the hell of it?

Does seeing me make music bathed in profanity,
Imply that I'm coming for your family?
Trousers hanging, south London slang,
All of this must mean i'm in a gang...right?

My makeup is pristine
Lips shiny skin clean.
I must be begging for attention from older guys,
Bursting in desire for someone to be in between my thighs.
So when you hear my cries on the TV,
“He didn't show his face but I know he ***** me”,
We are most definitely faking all of what happened.

Those people in the ****** related crews,
Seeing them in the news isn't seeing us in the news,
Those are the few who wish and choose to do such a terrible crime.
We breathe through corrupted lungs,
Bathing in the judgmental stares,
just because a woman fell down those stairs while I was right behind her?
Your inquiries and suggestions only tie the loose noose tighter.

We are not the youth you think we are,
Hovering below societies scar on our reputation.
We would be ashamed to be you.

Ive joined the crowd at the station
I joined all the suits ties and pretty black lies
The distinct chatter of plans made
The hum of the train against its tracks.

Ive joined the crowd at the station
The smell of burnt coffee and grease
The hustle and bustle
The early morning shouts of the tannoys canceling and creating arrivals and departures

London never felt like home
Yet here i am
In a coffee store at the station
Feeling more at home than ive ever felt.

Where am i you ask?
Im at the station.