there are some mornings
when I feel the weight of my hair
pulling my head down

when I can feel gravity
pulling down the subway when we cross the
bridge between Castle Frank and Broadview

there are some mornings
I don't think I can get out of bed
because the world is too real

the empty space between me
and my fingers is filled with blankets
and the meniscus of my eyelids
is curved up instead of away

But me no buts it's blood and guts, there's
a war going on,it's
cuts,cuts,cuts.

The Conservative army,all
****** barmy
and we're being shot down
in flames.

dew drop demons heavily falling off the leaves
                                                           then landing on my cheeks
                         where the absent of tears is present
electric strands twisting in the clouds
                                            making loud noises illuminating my face
                  and shaking loose the self knotted noose
the birds are calling to me,
                               chirping quietly watching with beady black eyes,
          responding to my cries and lamentations
as I fall to my knees, no longer running,
                                                                ­     ready  
                                                         ­      my wails turn into whimpers
as their wings began to whisper
                                  the raindrops start to quiver,
                                                              da­mpening my already worn skin
cuts from branches and thorns burn
                                             and my clothes are torn
I can hear them in the silence
                      as they take flight
             then gently land
in my hair and on my bare skin,
                                               their little claw like fingers grasp
I'm surrounded in sight by bright black wings
                                      circling my vision
                          they begin twisting into shapes I've never seen
               eradicating me
                                 and I go home,
                                                      painl­essly.

i just wanted to  pick your bones
white daisies in a field
and weave them together
a halo to float over my head
so wherever i'd go a part of you hung in the air
a soft constant breeze.

and maybe you'll let me.
maybe you'll string your veins like lights to light my journey
when the cobbled streets are black
and your back in rink-a-**** town
and i'm off getting my wings.

you like to breath air into my dreams,
lifting my balloons, and even though  you'll be here in this gray
town you never
made me feel sorry.

sorry that i've got to leave.
and maybe you'll give me your hands too,

so when it's colder than a winter month, i can wrap my fingers in them
and i'll be warm on the inside
too