Shrouded dark as desperate night I hide.
Spiralling. Spiralling like the ever flowing tide.
Unsure, unwavering. Pride is my downfall.
Copper masks and powered lead. I call
For sense and order, like conductor of the strings,
When chaos and disorder govern all things.
Minds beg for sense they can't explain
And in doing so drive their own insane.
Shaken, fearful. Acting brave.
But how much is left to save?
Like a ball of string, tied tight around
A sparking wire nest, and all unwound,
Like cloths that scissors tried to heal
But lost the thread, wounds never to seal.
Costing sense and order, life and day,
Night's taken all but the shattered sun away.
People ask who, no. What I am?
But to give an answer. I don't know if I even can.
Lost like a line without a hook,
I have a cover, but I'm no book.
Like everyone, read between the lines,
You'll see exactly what you'll find
Just as everybody else, a tired mind
Reside here, with what is left of human kind.

I took your hand and walked a sorry mile.
I wore my feet to sheds of skin and bone.
I held you gentle face within my grasp.
I whispered to you tales of great sorrow.
You held my hand and lead me through a forest.
You gave me shoes and cloth to bind my feet.
You smiled at my calloused skin against your face.
You laughed and joked and sang you were so merry.
I watched you like a flower spring to blossom.
I watched you bloom in summers gentle sway.
I watched when autumn came abounding.
I watched you slowly start to whither away.
But I could not watch the winter, who's grasp is icy cold.
I could not watch you slowly die inside.
I could not watch the wind blow your frail skin to dust.
So I hid and didn't look like seeing made it true.
When turning of the seasons brings life again anew.
I went outside a looking. A looking for you.
I think I saw you somewhere, a shadow in the wind.
A part of every creature, plant who's life again begins.

I'm smart, I tell myself as I fail another exam
I'm strong, I whisper as I collapse doing a push up
I'm beautiful, I say ******* my waist in as far as I can
I'm talented, I murmur as I try to play the piano

You're thick, they tell me as I stand and speak before an audience
You're weak, they whisper as I dance for three hours straight
You're ugly, they say as I shake petals from my flower filled hair
You're *******, they murmur as I draw a child with a boat

You're smart, I tell her as a brand new scar bleeds profusely
You're strong, I whisper as I stick it back together
You're beautiful, I say as it fades to white against her skin
You're talented, I murmur as she runs off again to play.

Is the wind the sigh of a traveller, weary?
Are clouds made of memories been?
Are raindrops the tears of a broken heart?
And is sunshine made purely of smiles?
Is the moon made up of a lover's first kiss?
Are stars hopes of every young child?
Does the river running wildly tell us to be free?
Do the mountains tell us to stay steady?
Are the birds swooping high calling your name?
Is the song of the whales the same?
Does you're mind sleep easy at three am?
And does your heart sing with a joyous fury?

Why has being messed up become cool?

Why is being sorted and stable such a crime?

Why can’t I feel sad without feeling bad in case someone with depression takes offence and tells me the pain I’m feeling isn’t true pain and that nothing can compare to the misery they feel so how dare I compare myself to them?

But I don’t compare myself to them. I compare myself to me.

I see children. Boys and girls of a mere thirteen comparing the scars on their arms because fashion told them that slicing their own skin would relieve the stress of keeping up with the fashion.

I see people all over the world creating illness to fit in. One week it’s a coma, the next a tumour. People dropping dead all over the place until they forget and suddenly they’re back online. If you ask them about it they spin some story about a miraculous recovery, or lying friend.

People boast about how they were bullied as a child and make up stories of abuse, and why?

Why has this become so commonplace?

Why do we have to compare the negative in our lives? Can’t we just be happy with our positives?

Why can’t I cry when I’m upset just because my parents are still happily married?

Just because I have less to cry about should not mean I shouldn’t be allowed to.

And if I do, it doesn’t mean I need a label.

I get sad, but I am not depressed.

I get nervous but I do not have an anxiety disorder.

I stand in front of the mirror and wish I saw someone slimmer standing before me, but I do not have an eating disorder.

So why am I made to feel like I should? Why do I feel like I should be broken? Why do I count the demons of my past and worry that if someone asks I will not have enough?

Something is wrong.

There are people with real issues. People who need help. People who spend every day sat in the shower, filling the bathtub with their own tears.

So take a step back, and look at what you have. Enjoy being happy, and don’t be scared to show it when you’re not. Reach a hand out to the people who can no longer see the sun through the clouds made by their evaporated tears. Cry with them but stop pretending you have it worse.

Mental illness is not a competition, and nor is happiness. We need to stop putting on a show.

And stop romanticizing pain.

Shrouded dark as desperate night I hide.
Spiralling. Spiralling like the ever flowing tide.
Unsure, unwavering. Pride is my downfall.
Copper masks and powered lead. I call
For sense and order, like conductor of the strings,
When chaos and disorder govern all things.
Minds beg for sense they can't explain
And in doing so drive their own insane.
Shaken, fearful. Acting brave.
But how much is left to save?
Like a ball of string, tied tight around
A sparking wire nest, and all unwound,
Like cloths that scissors tried to heal
But lost the thread, wounds never to seal.
Costing sense and order, life and day,
Night's taken all but the shattered sun away.
People ask who, no. What I am?
But to give an answer. I don't know if I even can.
Lost like a line without a hook,
I have a cover, but I'm no book.
Like everyone, read between the lines,
You'll see exactly what you'll find
Just as everybody else, a tired mind
Reside here, with what is left of human kind.

When the moon shines bright and lonesome

On the silent moors

Then my true love comes a visiting

Comes knocking at my door



She wears a dress of embers

And begs to let her in

But I know better than that

And tearfully I sing



She left me at the alter

She left me alone to dance

She left me living her dreams

She left without a chance



When the moon shines bright and lonesome

On the silent moors

Then my true love comes a visiting

Comes knocking at my door



I keep the door tight shut

The windows blocked and barred

I will not let that creature in

Though it leaves me scarred.



For she did not leave me truly

For her ghost still carries on

On nights when the moon shines brightly

You can hear her plaintive song



When the moon shines bright and lonesome

On the silent moors

Then my true love comes a visiting

Comes knocking at my door

When I in foreign pastures lay,
Upon the soft and starlit ground
Cradled softly in the arms
Of night and all she brings along.
I watched the silent creatures fly
Carried high in summer's breath
Gently rocked from side to side
Forever carried in the wind.
Tonight reminds me yet again
Of that fair night so long ago
When drifting through sleeps gentle grasp
I dreamt of angels wings and followed
Their voices soft as child's play
Until upon your fair brow fastened
My eyes. You took my breath away.
I stood and stared for minutes. Hours!
Until the gentle light of dawn
The waking sun began to glow
And stole from me, so bittersweet
The memory of your sleeping face.
But now before me in the flesh
Shining you stand, fully awake
Your face in changed, but heart remains.
Just like that night in foreign pastures
As I counted the stars within your eyes.

Seconds on a watch

Minutes of a show

Time can pass so very fast

And sometimes very slow



Morning to midday,

Afternoon to night

Time is passing always

And never seems quite right.



We sit and think and wonder,

As the hours trundle past,

About all the people

And how moments never last.

Far above the cherry blossom
Flies a swallow through the air
Carried by the song of children
To a land where every care
Is washed away by fairies laughing
Forgotten by the mermaid's call
Where the young all live forever,
Threatened only by the pirate's brawl
Where you can take every ounce of sorrow,
Pack it up and it store away
In a cardboard box every fear and worry,
To be forgotten until another day.
And sunshine raindrops fall around
And no one's ever called naive
When they say that dreams really do come true
All you have to do is to believe.

My footsteps crush the white beneath me,

Almost silent, almost still.

Thinking of all the things you could be,

Knowing that you never will.



A moment passes like an hour,

An hour, like a day.

Life is bitter, sweet and sour

And as beautiful as May.



The snow below gently hisses.

Turns red before it melts away.

And something somewhere inside me wishes

That it would last, just one more day



But you have gone to join the angels,

Sitting high upon their thrones.

And though I've met many individuals.

I think of you when it snows.

The darkness wrapped itself around her ankles,

Spiralling up and over her skin.

It seemed to drip off her fingers like syrup,

And run through her hair like rain.



She danced in a ring at the top of the hill,

Singing and chanting a beat.

Wherever she went she left dainty footprints,

Made of that which is night



And she danced - The girl dancing.



A mist swirled in, covering the ground,

Wrapping it in its soft touch.

But it kept away from the girl in black

As she spun around the night.



Her dress swished, and the wind blew,

Her hair flew and clouds parted,

She clapped her hands and the moor grew still.

Not a sound in the night,



But that of the girl dancing



The she slowed and she stopped and the moon came out

Full over the moor.

She lifted her hands, and a fire arose.

A fire out of the moor.



Made by darkness and mist and a dancing girls feet,

Made by song, and rhythm and beat,

A fire call forth to worship the moon,

In the dark, out on the moor.



Made by a girl, dancing.

Set me free and let me fly

Follow the brook and let me lie

Beneath the oak on ground so soft,

Where dew never dries, beneath the moss.

Let me sleep for a thousand years

Do not wake me, nor shed any tears

But let me at peace with nature be

And listen to earth's sweet harmony.

And when in years you join me there

We'll spend the time without a care

We'll sit within the dappled shade

Of the willow, and in the glade

We'll dance until the night is done

And yet again the sun has come.