I want to exist in coffee shops.
In riveting conversations of the world and self.
In piano concertos, melancholy music lyrics and brush strokes.
In days spent lying under the sun
then evenings strolling down a seaside pavement
and nights spent dancing without a care.

I just want to exist in lines of romantic, perfected poetry.

The urge to run away to a
green, open field,
Is always stronger on Sundays.

I have so much love to give.
I thought a boyfriend might be the answer.
Silly of me, not to see,
That the person that needed my love most,
Was me.

‘Love you!’,
Spoken quickly,
So that the absence of ‘I’ cannot
Be heard.
I, is personal,
I, is suffocating,
I, isn’t real.

I refuse to say
I love you.

The feminine urge to brush your hair,
Make chamomile tea,
Hug you gently,
And tell you all will be well.

Cross, Skip -
Child’s gallop -
Through man’s field.
Field of red lights,
Field of smoke grown.
Eyes closed,
‘Top 10’ beat.
Run,
Run, run run.
Past zebras and yellow punches.
Past Pipers, squares and other shapes.
Get to the green.
Trot, canter, gallop.
Get to nature’s field.

Sometimes,
The thought that keeps me alive,
Is the knowledge that I
Haven’t really lived.