Scribbling in little weaving scratchy black lines, neat but still
uncertain,
unsure of where the ink should turn to next, leaving
blotches of unsureity riddled awkwardly across my page,
my hand turns a phrase of no meaning, only to strike
it through with a line too curvy yet too straight to be
       intentional.
We are forced to write until shooting pains
crawl
up
our
hands and arms and we cry
out “no more, no more” and all of a sudden
they turn it to your life, they say
we are useless
without these marks
depicting memories
of frantic
late night
remembering.

Soft, loud, loud.


What am I?
Not music, just the lines on a page. Yet depicting the pitterpatter of moonlight, music, lines, dreaming, all the same.
Soft loud soft
Gently in little strokes a delicate face emerges
         Loud loud
The night sings through my hand, darkening until no line is left unshaded, no place left
              unworked.

Spreading
       Cracking

Growing
                                Pulsing
Slowly, breathe
  Into me.
I am not the earth nor air you live on, but the pain you drink
                          
                 Sorry but I can’t help myself.

If I were one inside instead
I would take it all back
      Out
The raindrops tumble slowly,
   Dripping off your weathered skin,
Winter is coming,
I’ll never again
See the words you softly spin
Peaceful

I am not the earth you live on, but the tears that fall
                  
                                           Slowly


Upon your leaves.

Everything is watching
   Always
                         Always
I sometimes find at those times
When everything just falls into its place,
And the sky becomes one with the earth and it floods
Through the fragile small body that
      Holds me,
          Maybe.

And my feelings become one with the earth
As tears fall from my eyes down to the roots.
In those times I can’t breathe because
All that is holding me’s so huge,
       So beautiful and bright, So bright and huge
And whenever my hands find the earth
Among pavements I wrap my fingers
    Round soil and plants just to get a bit closer.

      In dark nights I wonder if all that ever mattered
Were the sky and the sea and the stones,  but turning my face to the breeze I know,
      That maybe they’re nothing at all.

And when I am falling to pieces I place my ears to the bark of the trees
         I tell myself that maybe I’m part of the spirit that’s

moving through them

Just turn around please, somebody tell me that all that I am is not lost

That the dust on the breeze and the sky on my fingers can do something more
Than us all
But maybe
      
         Maybe

If the broken down houses and deserted forests can play a melodic a chord among those once lost
The music of the never stolen flames can sing

          Sing, Sing!

And all at once it bursts
Oh, the colours of the dawn, the growing of the leaves.
In the brilliant circles lie the real truths

It cannot be described. No.
It is the earth.

      I am the earth