What is there to pump my blood?
 I am devoid of heart and love.
Why do I care about my face,
And slaving for a brief embrace?
The only touch I crave is death.
The coldest skin, a rattled breath.
I’ve felt all that there is to feel.
The deepest pain, their pinching steel.
I’ve smiled and I have sliced my skin,
Religiously let demons in.
Invited them into my soul,
To take me with them when they go.
Regret for every choice I make,
I never cared what was at stake.
So what is there to get up for?
I won’t be what I was before.

I hide my limp as well as I can,
Whilst my Lacoste trainers bite at my heels.
I try to look like I know what I’m doing,
Striding along central London streets,
A hidden google map at my side.
The sun is too hot to wear makeup…
Or socks as it happens which is why I have blisters.
Dodging past women in laboutins and men in suits,
I think to myself,
It’s lunchtime for the rich.
All of the restaurants are too expensive for me,
And they’d all want to eat me alive.
So I find some shade on the grass at Finsbury circus gardens.
I release my stinging feet from their white leather prisons,
And ground myself.
Whilst eating an egg sandwich out of a tinfoil wrapper,
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Exhaling my earlier fear,
I lived another day.

You spin dreamscapes across my mind
You weave a skyline made of satin clouds
You burn me with flames made of stars
And keep me in your pocket
Safe and sound
In my imaginary world you created

What a beautiful morning to be
In Jacobstow cemetery
Just sixteen degrees
Dew on the grass and trees
A damp wooden bench beneath me
And quiet souls around me
Taking in the scripture
Carved in moss covered stone
Nodding good morning to
The families long gone
Dandelions flick their mottled homes
As insects comfort resting bones
I could sit here every morning
And never feel alone

Better the devil you know
They say
Better get watered to grow
But wait
You’d better be careful and think
She warned
You’d better be quiet and shrink
Or else
They’ll find someone better and leave
You there
But maybe you’re better alone than shared

I only write when I’m sad
But I suppose it is not all that bad
For if I only create
When I feel desolate
Then there is much creation to be had

Sitting on cold pebbles
watching the sunset
over the sea in December
Makes me wonder
That if I live my life
As close to the sun
And the ocean as I can
Will I become those rippling
Blues and oranges
When I go?
I hope so