She does not know who she is
Only who they are

She does not understand her own weaknesses
Yet knows theirs as if they were scrawled on her palm

The deepest of empathy felt for others
When asked how she felt, her response is invisible

How could a soul so caring become so lost?
She thought this was her journey all along

"They don't know any better" - that's what she will say
As her heart is crushed deep into the dirt again and again

She knows she's at risk of the clutches of addiction
She thought she was safe due to the lack of substance within

The addiction she has however is worse than any drug
And the lack of substance relates to a lack of oneself

She spends her whole life ensuring they are happy, safe and content
Yet she has no grasp on the needs of her own life, let alone wants

It is difficult to see what's infront of you for looking
For now all she can do is try her best at turning a blind eye to their lives

Life issues come in all shapes and sizes
But please remember that to fix other people, compassion is necessary

For yourself, then others.

Where the Earth has etched out the Avon gorge,
I stand and look, from the edge of the downs,
see from the pale blues, where sky and land merge,
to a valley of green and ochre browns.
Under the midday sun, in silent awe,
I stand and look into the glowing distance.
Light dances, like I've never seen before,
the landscape shimmering with brilliance.
It humbles me, how I have happened upon
this panoramic and sublime expanse,
how it will stay with me, once I have gone,
how what I will remember is the dance.
Then I realise, the world, it sings a song.
That all I want to do, is sing along.

the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.