Hi there Poet,

Your presence is always precious
here in my home,
Whether it’s lovesick confessions
or a need to not be alone.

These white walls and boxes
to which you can write any sins away,
or to just play dally with linguistic foxes,
to make quicker a boring day.

To scrawl out words black
to find redress and re-rhyme,
to release and not hold back
to find home-truths, to take your time.

I can take you at your word
be it dishevelled, battered or grey,
your weary voice can be heard
to make some weight fall away.

But now Dear Poet
it’s time to end this tune,
you’ve written a new one? Well show it,
the one hidden in your drafts since June.

you passed by the river
and the reflection was cast on
my curve of bank.
the current
lost it’s strength at the mouth
like words whispered in defeat.
were it not for my knowledge
of those who have drowned
i would be breathing the reeds and water
and beating against the overflow.
i think it’s human nature
fight for something
for the only thing we know.

like-a-night-terror
slip pin g  out of vie w
                                  the words elude.
  so keep there
the                 eyes
     unfocused
at paper or/// screen till the sentence---- rushes into sight.    
              break it.
                        ^^                  butcher it.
     keep it.<<      >>  analyse it.
  toss it .                                         kiss it.

where w a  s it?                  was it ee ee e even here?

a tremor in the night
awoken without the memory
(all poets say is a million different "I can't love you any other way.")
of a line i wanted to write.

it’s the unwillingness to      (stop)
start
imitations                           (one-way)
of genuine
conversations                  (relationships)

i take shelter in your grooves
growing stronger in the curves
like whetstones smoothing and sharpening me down
to make a fine point

i wanted you to build with me
to push
me
up gently.

see if this rust
can turn into something beautiful
to see if rust
can be turned to gold

To the God which determines the lifetime of Poets i ask,

let all the poets die with their hearts no longer on their sleeves;

but finally in their throats.
so in our final moments
all the words never written
can, at last,
be spoke.

peace comes in packages we sometimes can't find strength to open

peace comes in millstones we can sometimes release ourselves from

peace comes through doors we open
and sometimes reveals itself
once we shut and bar some from entering

peace came and laid down arms in the name of forgiveness

peace came and lasted

peace

you wasn't ready
to
communicate what i really felt
you
were to much rawness
not enough
sharpness
just words thrown at paper in anger and sadness and a desire to finally get them out

i wasn't prepared to fix you up
because i'm in no position
to tell you how to be made right.

deleted your location
from my phone
as the little green dot that represents
your distance from   me
is no longer accurate.

if i wanted to hurt you
                        i would feed you my poetry,
                                                         then wean you off of it.
                                                  
                                         Out of spite.

so in my spare time
after a days studying
i stand on the pulpit
and talk to an empty room
shouting into the corners all the words i have written for people
who are not listening

like therapy i record these speeches
and play them back to remind me of the flow
of words
that could fill chalkboards whiteboards and lecture notebooks
but carry no weight

sometimes pray that the room is being captured
so someone can tell me to go
or perhaps the security guard finds some satisfaction
in seeing a heart unable to say no

the emptiness of the ribcage after picking up a weight that was too heavy to hold  
                        like bullet-shells in arteries
                        tearing up from the inside out
                        coughing up wounds that never close properly
entropic love consumes the sky     cloudwatching emotions
sitting alone                                       to make heads or tails of them
begging to be swallowed too          the winds had nothing to say

of course healing takes time  takes time  to  pay  back

each suture like silk each pin ***** a waymark

to be the song you play for others to listen too
                  to be listened to

the taps rusted over
but i'm yet to know if the beer tastes any more bitter
than trying it as a child.
sat in a dingy leather seat
with the ribbons of cowhide at my feet
after some animal had
its way.
where the people perspire through conversations
about the weather
and the tax man
and the never changing politic.
staff and regular alike
do not remember my mothers name
like the stint she pulled was lost to myth, my name
meant nothing.
maybe that's why i sat in the pub my mother used to work
once upon a time,
to see if the atmosphere could conjure her
like the football brought fleeting happiness
five rounds in.

there's 3 varieties of rock
scouted from the hillside
at the foot of the launchpad.

I LOAD UP ANGER,
IN ALL OF ITS FROZEN AND FIERY SHARPNESS
WEIGHING DOWN THE MECHANISM
WITH ALL OF MY EXPECTATIONS
TO THROW AT THESE UNFEELING WALLS

to simmer and smoulder
before impact
like a whispered promise.

(i reach for silence)
(the underhandedness catching my fingers)
(drawing blood over the drawstring)
(sending another part of me in its flightpath)

it never reaches the sky
you can't fire a non-feeling
as much as we wish we could.

so-i-decide-to-settle-down-
in-this-trebuchet-
to-see-if-­throwing-myself-headlong-
will-let-me-break-through-or-break-me-
­
The castle walls remain up, the remains of a young man were recently disposed of by the guards, cause of death?  
Trying too hard.

laying with blue skies
in your hair
earthy reddened clay
across your cheeks
the river in your
shoulder blades
smokey fires blooming
from your thighs
solid mountains holding
your ankles together.

You stand and smile at me from across the street
so I pray to Gaia
to be a mistake you can’t help but repeat.

i am envious of your
ability to not hear the hope
in my words
and
jealous
of the resolve in your disdain.

i could never feel nothing.
but sometimes wish i would.

i never could write in the sunshine, yet i had to.
and sometimes, the sky opens these memories
long, long locked away.
The parting of clouds, like that of eyes, of dreams.

of being 6 and crying tears of joy,
of being 12 and just crying,
the bite of bark against forearms,
the froth of a first beer,
and fires of first love,
and aches of growth,
seeing mirrors that never had a little boy smiling,
seeing horizons that never had an end.

sometimes, i think, the sky is like a mirror
reaching out across time.
and i think i could now dance carefree
with the snivelling younger me.

with all of that self-love,
seeing his future would be enough.

i. How to justify running away
there was no solid ground to stand on
no
earth to sink into.
a remember-me-not
of dirt.

ii. How to describe anxiety
laying on the edges of paper
slicing arteries of the throat,
the jugular veins,
forcing a sort of not cry/moan/scream/whimper.

iii. How to talk about unrequited love
push open the wound
accidentally scarring the memory
into skin.
writing calligraphy from the bloodstream.

iv. How to know what's home
slinking back to cotton
to caress and cover and rebuild
weary soul.
let a candle be the lighthouse.

v. How to write about someone who will never write back
oh these relentless intakes of air
that rattling the rib cage,
why is love only fair
when its finished to the bottom of the page.

What will I have of you
to show
Why I love you?
What, can I raise in my cold hands
to summon your warmth
back into my blood?
To speak of you, like snowflakes
in space,
to feel the shape of a name in my mouth?
What part of my heart
can I show, to make others understand?
To who can I hold like you did,
in my fever dreams,
to breathe in my whispers and lock them away for rainy days?
To who can I give these tears that betray my love?

Please. What can you leave for me
Before you have to leave me?

There's no relationship Richter scale.
No level
One _
      Two ------
             Three ^^^^^
Catastrophe.

There's no stopping these reverberations.
so seek shelter
until love can restart;        
                                    till you can find home

                              in a~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~ ~still vibrating      
                                                                       heart.

let me rest
at your foundations.
the bedrock and granite streaking
earth.
let me trace with my fingers your
basis.
to feel safe and free
of your too cold hands.

let each leaf in the forest
be a love story that anybody can walk through when
they feel alone.

let each late night car ride
carry sonnets, starlit whispers and murmurs
in case it feels a little too much.

let each poem in this logbook
be able to reach into your longing heart and empty hands
for whenever you thought you weren't loved.

i am always one poem away from saying "i love you."