My hair smells like carrot cake,
it holds onto things like that-
and accidental kisses
that were not very kind.

I’m sorry,
by the way.

I forgot your lips were trouble
and you have a troubled mind.

From your perspective,
the water lays clear and blue,
sugar dissolves on the tongue like it was never even there
and Daddy gave you a car that you care for respectfully.

Letters get placed nicely into your hands
and that pink mouth of yours says lovely things,
born in spring,
it must be nature on your side.

From your perspective,
it's no wonder you walk uphill
and tremble when asked to stand still.
Who would ******* when you won't **** yourself?
But I can see
why you're still never lonely.

You insist on some insomnia
before you fall asleep
in your radiated room in Daddy's house.
Eyes that match the sky
on your side of the day,
you're that part of the valley
catching the sun.

From your perspective,
sunflowers only need to face one another
and they grow like fools in your garden.
You're insured for those faulty organs
and I bet it's nice to lie over a safety net at night.

The roses are dead,
they had barely turned red,
in the morning
I rose to them withered.

The sun made no sound
as it stood from the ground
to illuminate
the absence of life.

Oh, it stung like a thorn
to see this at dawn;
my heart shrivelled up
like those petals.

“They look red to me?”-
the others can’t see
those dead roses
that sit on our table.

“It’s all in your mind,
the roses are fine;
so are you,
if you give yourself time.”

Still here,
beating.

I stand over the girl from my past.

My shadow is a mass, but I am Liberty,
in her stance,
in her strength,
in the sunlight.

Twice struck,
second one has stuck
in deep,
enough to blur the world around me-
around him.

Never mind the darker hours
 (they aren’t important);
what is crucial, is the breath in my lungs.

The weight of your head,
like the whole globe on your shoulders,
the world on one neck,
the ache of one body.

I’m tired, like all of the stress simply sits on my dreams

while I’m trying to sleep it away,
but I don’t get a break-
not even one day.

At least the bowl isn’t red anymore,
at least the sun is alight.
But I’ve ached for a year now, and it’s still so unclear how
I will heal, or if ever I will.

Keep sunny, keep yellow,
like the lilies in bloom
which sit on the drawers
at the end of my room.

The weight of my head,
like the whole globe on my shoulders,
the world on one neck,
the ache of one body.

Don’t allow grey skies to dampen your hair,
soak up your shirt,
seep into your
socks.

Let the tears fall if they brew under-lid,
saltwater
cleanses and
soothes.

Don’t stay up late ‘til the birds start to talk,
spreading secrets
you don’t need to
hear.

Smoke always rises and wind blows you sideways-
even gorse ****
has bright yellow
bloom.

Wild children have been here
to throw glitter in the green,
in the sun it does shimmer
and glimmer and gleam.

While the dew does sparkle,
the birds babble on,
flitting and swooping
on rays of the sun.

Butterflies dance
between evergreen trees,
carried by birdsong
and the early spring breeze.

They flit and they float,
in the colour of honey,
the kind that is golden,
delicious and runny.