The moon is up,
high in the sky.
Just beyond my reach,
at least in reality.
For in my dreams everything is possible.
Even touching the moon.

Being used to wanting to die,
Being used to wanting to die makes it easier and harder,
Because what if I don't remember what it is like to want to live?

I have moved to a different drum
With odd and peculiar rhythms
Dancing awkwardly through life
On my two flat clumsy feet
It is not the way I chose
To step on innocent toes
But the wildness of my dance
Has had no easy flow
The blame lies entirely with me
It's a genetic thing, you see
I am no more than this
The son of the gypsy's kiss

                                By Phil Roberts