Flies digest my dead thoughts as larva is left
to again once feed on the thoughts that weren't
totally digested and reverberating inside my skull.

My attention is waning and not as coherent as
it once was. I just hear an inherent murmur of
what died slowly digested within my scalp.

Why are my memories of before only faded
repetitions of what was fed upon before.
My mind is so dark with fluttering wings.

*"My mind has died and only the flies pick at my thoughts,

Unassertive
Feeling furtive
Something isn’t right
Nibbling neuralgia begins to bite
Slightly pensive
Apprehensive
Eyes that dart about
Hover in the corner like a lingering doubt
Shadow thin
Sickly grin
Skin the shade of dust
Wringing at the fingers with a deep distrust
World view
Hangs askew
Tinkers with the blind
Studying the habits of humankind

He gave me a seed
He said: “Plant it in your earth and let it be
Let me feed it of your love
Let me quench it with your gently flowing tears
Let me grow it for us both, full of life and full of fears
Let me watch you watch it grow, every branch and every leaf
Till you and it melt into one…single root and single seed
And then… watch me burn it to the ground, every stem and every leaf
Till you and I become but none, you fade to smoke and I just leave…”

The news will say we're suffering from excess immigration
That a rampant hoard of foreigners has fallen on our nation
But truthfully, there hasn't been a native Briton here
Since people dressed in mammoth skin and hunted with a spear

Our language is a mixture of a dozen different tongues
We munch our way through poppadoms, fajitas and fu-yungs
When cheering at a football match, we're infamously vocal
Our teams may be the finest but the players won’t be local

Genetically, a Briton is a multi-cultured stew
With Romans, Saxons, Vikings and the Celts, to name a few
Our national drink is Indian, the Germans make our beer
The TV comes from China and the table from IKEA

Potatoes from America and onions grown in Spain
A multitude of British things arrive by boat and plane
The rain that falls upon our hills has blown from over seas
And with it come migrating birds to nest in British trees

The Royal Windsor family have Greek and German genes
So think about just what it is that being British means
We're stronger with our differences, the best of humankind
Our nation, not an island but a common state of mind

At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room
Where the cockroaches eat what the rats don’t consume
There’s a table enveloped in paper and grime
On a carpet now lost to a happier time
With a cast iron typewriter, rusted with age
In the gloomy wee room at the back of the stage

And under a lampshade of nicotine brown
Sits a comical legend of zero renown
How he plugs at the keys of his rattling beast
The years of persistence have left him decreased
Now he’s stuck in the shade of his hovering doom
At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room

His words are for others and too, the applause
Though a standing ovation might cause him to pause
He hasn’t the courage to speak them aloud
For he’s lacking the bottle and shy of a crowd
So he captures the laughter in lines on his page
In a gloomy wee room at the back of the stage

somewhere between silence and speech
there must be a place where broken words go
full of stutters and writers block sufferers
somewhere between the "i love" and the "you" that never followed
or the "wait" that was whispered into the air

there must be a place where broken words go
the words spoken but never listened to  
the letters written but never sent
the train of thought that crashed into the clouds
the words in the bottle that traveled the sea
but sunk to the bottom before it could ever reach

there must be a place where broken words go
there must be a place i can call home