A crack in the wall
Or under your bed
Live a people so small
They're thinner than thread
Shorter than mice
Shorter than dice
Shorter than lice
Shorter than rice
But away they build
And cities they make
Tiny but skilled
Like the things they create
So hear the bed springs
It's their world you're squashing
And know there are things
Still doing their washing

Life to mind
Mind to pen
Pen to paper
Paper to bin
Been to gone
Gone to Work
Work to live
Live to die
Die to stop
Stop to breath
Breath to go
Go to sleep
Sleep to Dream
Dream to mind
Mind to pen
Pen to paper
Paper to screen
Screen to you

I remember days spent rocking to and fro on a boat with no particular place to go, just waiting for the next race, sandwich in hand which is somehow filled with sand, though none is in sight. The massive grin as I almost fall in, and a look of disappointment as he realises I’m not completely soaked to my skin.

I remember nights spent under electric lights, rolling bowls down an artificial green, and seeing him clap and cheer if I got anywhere near.

I remember piles and piles of meat being grilled, Ivor looking perfectly chilled as the barbecue flamed around his ears, always calm and happy to be cooking, ribs and burgers and sausages and steak, always burnt a few by ‘mistake’ which just happened to find their way to the dog.

I remember him smiling.

I remember singing with him in the car, on our way to do something somewhere, voices raised high, without a care for the tune, or pitch, and even the lyrics were mostly substituted with anything we came up with at the time. Belting Les Mis together for the 42nd time that trip because we had forgotten to take any other CD’s.

I remember how proud he looked when he showed me the first Potato he took home from the new allotment, trying to justify the days of work digging and toiling, plowing and boiling in a summer heat that couldn’t seem to keep him inside, for the sake of more courgettes than you could shake a stick at.

I remember crying, and him telling me it was okay to feel this way, that it just means we cared, and not to be ashamed to let the tears fall.

I remember watching him sit in the garden, Toby at his feet, content to just watch the world go by, only the occasional fly to bother him. He just sat, a small smirk on his face, happy with the pace of the world as it was, the afternoon sun just starting to sink. I wish I could remember what he said as I joined him.

I remember him as he was, as he will always be in my mind and my heart.

I feel like Schrödinger's cat,
Both happy and weary
In a box that's the theory
Call me Schrödinger's Jack
Could be one way or the other
Be like me or my brother
But better yet be better
Be more than I am or less
Going through time is the test
But the box is closed,
Nobody knows
How I'll turn out, till it's opened
If the lock will turn,
If the hinges are broken.
The future is the box
And the cat is me
There or not
Soon we'll see

Am I so broken?
She tells me so,
Her eyes full of tears
That it's what's left unspoken
That I can't see myself
That I can't react
I'm numb
Someone else's problem
Not mine
It's not who I am
Not who I want to be
But in reality it is
It's who I've become
Faded and worn
Not yet 20 but old
But I am a lie

Something always itches.

When I walk.

Itch.

When I talk.

Itch.

I scratch, and I can breathe again.

When I'm cold.

Itch.

When I'm hot.

Itch.

I scratch, and I can breathe again.

If I'm at home.

Itch.

If I'm away.

Itch.

I scratch, and I can breathe again.

When I smoke.

Itch.

When I don't.

Itch.

I scratch, and I can breathe again.

I can laugh.

Itch.

I can cry.

Itch.

I scratch, and I can breathe again.

You scratch, and I feel like I'll never itch again.

You scratch, and I feel like I'll never breathe again.

You scratch, and everything stops.