The walls of my heart,
they clench me in.
The voices in my head,
they tell me the worst things I've always read.
The words I hear,
they're the things that I always fear.
The dinner I ate,
I let them find their way back up.
The ink in my wrists,
I watch them flow from thin lines.
The fear I feel,
they make the monsters real.
The anxiety I feel,
it overwhelms me.
The things I feel,
they make me hate me.
they make me loathe me.
they **** me.

The pan galactic consciousness
where thoughts amass
to coalesce is
the wish within the wishing well
the thinking cell where
all parts become the whole,

*** for tat
kidnap and ****
will
it ever
end?

There is danger all around
let's stay here on
the middle ground,but
make no mistake
we
are the brave
but like to save our sanity
with
the adage,
'let's just wait and see'
If tomorrow comes we can explore
if tomorrow comes we can
take one step more outside
the comfort zone
but today
we'll all just stay at home and
watch the world
go by.

With delicate stitches
she sewed me
back together
again.

I wanted to write a poem about flowers, so that's what I did.
It was short, expressed how I feel, and cut like glass.
I showed my father "Flowers" and he thought it was mediocre.
And I said, "No, "Mediocre" is the poem where I talk about dying,
and I'm trying to stay alive, so I wrote about flowers."

Flowers strangling soil plots with their roots, with their existence.
And to hurt something you love with your existence is a terrible feeling.

Melting in the hot air and
felt up there by
buzzards on the wing,
circling in bright skies,with
circles under dark eyes.
dropping like stones to
pick at the bones
melting in the hot air.

Your name burns
at the base of my stomach,
it tastes like flames
when I say it
but I continue to swallow,
big gulps
that drown out the ringing in my ears

I wonder what it would have felt like
to kiss your lips,
taste the fire in your heart
blood red lust
like innocence dressed in her mother’s lipstick
to trace the outline of your freckles
on soft uncharted skin,
I wonder what it would have felt like
to be your cartographer
to sail the high seas in your iris
and find sand in between my toes
after every visit

I keep imagining the things I would say
if we had met at a different time
I could have started by throwing matches
into your puddles,
and noticing how you smile like sunlight
glinting of the ocean

you are across the world
exploring,
mapping your own skin
and sailing with a crew called options,
they beckon your name
and make you forget that our hands ever brushed,
that we ever exchanged smiles
like two preschoolers
making engagement rings out of fruit loops,
you’re standing tall and brave
shrouded in the peace of letting go
while, I,
wait at the port
for you to return
knowing at the base of my stomach
that you will pass me by on your way home.
“land, **!” means refusing to
acknowledge my tedious “hello”
you will step on my apologies
like the creaky old boards of a ship,
and I will become the tide
lapping at your bare feet

I will see you in the fields of days
in the blue or grey of thundering storms
though wild rivers change course
and I lose ground, you steadfast remain
you are the rousing dawn of birdsong
the silver sun of white light flashing
you are the wind, a whisper, a kiss
upon my face, that lifts my sullen eyes
all the tears, your infinite ocean washes away
and I am left upon the shore, where only love remains

I didn't write this work, it was written by my dear friend Carole Hurley who has been having a problem posting

I sit on the top deck of a red London bus and view the world passing by, so much more interesting than a drive in a car.
Where are they all coming from, the people I see? Where are they going to, what do they do with their lives? These people I view.
That little old couple,  side by side holding hands. They look so content as they walk down the Strand.
The young men and women hurrying by, perhaps going to work, maybe going to buy a sandwich to eat in the park.
Tourists in their thousands viewing our London sites. I wonder where do they all go to at night.
I gaze eagerly down as we pass famous stores, their names proudly emblazoned over the doors.
I love the hustle and bustle of our London town, a wonderful mix of the old and the new, I try to absorb all the breathtaking views.
Theres Tower Bridge in her livery of gold and of blue,  her ramps held aloft as a ship passes through.
Whitehall where the soldier high on his horse so proud and so still, while tourists take photographs later to view.
Big Ben chimes as the Houses of Parliament we pass. Westminster Abbey so stately and tall, for hundreds of years overlooking it all, the laughter the sadness,  the tears and the fears.
I look at new buildings all made out of glass.  I look at it free courtesy of my free bus pass.