A bracelet beaded in nothing but love
Hanging loosely on the wrist
Seeing everything that you will
Through the sun, through the mist

Knotted slightly wrong, you know it was made by someone
who stared at the petals and took so long
threading the thin white string through
the subtle white, red purple and dark blue

Its not the blood dripping from the bites
Its not the emptiness


A single thought that you cant stop rethinking
It grows and it lurks, it hurts
A memory blanched in bleach,
it changes colours when you're not watching


And it follows you into a different grey room
and sneaks up on you when you're all alone
In the harsh rain, you cant see it and you cant fight it
Its a familiar scent, something itching behind your eyelids


All accumulating in a corner you'll never watch
Sneaking on all the floorboards that wont creak
Hiding in plain sight

And petals, they fall from the trees like pink rain that isn't wet,
suspended in wind, they drift from the sky.
They fall, searching for an answer, invisible to the average passer by, but lighting up a writers shining eyes,
who puts their palm out, in all whispering wonder,
for a glimpse of beauty as it leaves to fly in the spring wind.

Floating

Here. it’s where i’ll always be.

In this grey space i get visited.
I get plagued by the weather in my head, and sometimes, it drowns me
Can’t count how many times you’ve been here
Standing beside me

When you're awake, it's a single string of text, repeating.
A single musical sting that you can hear against the polluted silence - that isn't ever silent.
They're always wriggling. Always eating.


An imaginary sensation,
You can feel but you cant touch.
An imaginary illusion.
You can see but you cant touch.


Things tend to be like that,
Like ideas,
Always elusive.


Pretty things don’t lie still; they haunt, they stare.
In the static,
you can hear them whispering.


earworms.

and i suppose

all the days where i was angry, all the days where we weren’t fine,

don’t replay in my mind anymore.

it’s a slow beating heart, waiting for someone,

closing your eyes in the dark, nothing less than what you do every day,

a slow pulling desire you never act on, bounded by strings that you have strung up in sleep,

a slow pulling thought tying up everything loose.

And for the endless river that nobody can see, you’re in it, thigh deep, walking.

i guess you just learn how to swim at some point.

i guess you become your own life buoy.

the slimy algae beneath your paddling feet, you lost your grip,

a long time ago.

And the wind outside, it’s speaks against the window frame,

a reflection of the desolate mind.

the quiet pedestrian who ventures in the dark,

avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk, they stroll,

they watch the grass blow in the night,

swaying in the light of the moon.

The cars on the freeway will howl,

the silence polluted, the mind unempty and yet, dead,

like a lethargic bug, crawling along the dirt,

overtired and yet unsleeping.