when you know, you know,
that's what everyone says
so I think I know, you know,
and now of course,
I am going to run from that
hard and fast
just because
I am on
self
destruct.

I hate myself
it's at night time the whispers are the loudest,
they speak of my indecision,
my inability to articulate my emotions,
my weakness, my futile tears, my numbness, my unfaithfulness,
I hate myself*
it's just as things are going well,
that the voices return,
from their leave of absence,
they're kind at heart, don't you see,
they allow me to bring myself up, to try,
to almost get there,
before creeping up on me
I detest what I am
the most abhorrent thing about the voices,
you really want to know?
it's not that they come from
within, though that too is tough,
it's the fact that I hear him in them, and know that he
was right all along.

I'm sorry
that you wanted her lips
and not mine -
I'm sorry that I misunderstood
I'm sorry that I got
mixed up

It's not your fault;
that I'm fatefully attached
to anyone
who shows just an etch of
consideration
to my worthless soul

And I am sorry,
that I thought you might be my way out

Listen,
to you it may all be a game,
it's a laugh,
a joke,
which is something I like the most about you;
there's nothing serious plaguing your soul

but it's just got to be remembered,
i'm much too fragile to fall for it
whole-heartedly,
i refuse to see myself as anything
special to anyone
i'm much too destructive for that

so thanks and all
but i don't think i'm right for you
and ******* for that too.

there is so much guilt for
the dead,
as though to not pity them,
is to erase them completely.

we fear for
the dead,
as though they are lost
and afraid,
as though without our
dulcet whisperings,
they shall be alone in the dark;

I think that we should smile for
the dead,
after all,
they probably do not care
as they are too busy
decaying,
as we're wilting.

I couldn't fully contemplate 'dark thoughts'
until I had them -
I never belittled them or doubted their existence,
simply their lack of presence made me somewhat
ignorant

I couldn't fully recognise them in myself,
until one night
sat alone, so so alone,
and wondering if it would ever be morning again,
and contemplating whether or not I really cared.

More fool me,
For thinking I was a good enough person
For thinking I deserved to be loved,

More fool me.
I've spent all this time blaming you
For wanting nothing to do with me
But it's my fault
I ruined us when I did it

More fool you,
For ever bothering to give me a chance at all.

Shouting is not an art form
it's ugliness; rendered in-concealable,
for there is no beauty within it -
although it is sometimes necessary,
as sometimes;
we need to be exposed, whole-heartedly,
to the harshness,
within this destructed world
within our blackened hearts

but

Expression should be whispered,
as only those willing,
to strain their
delicate ears to hear,
are capable to listen,
to shine through.

after all

shouting will not unveil
ignorance,
it will simply shatter the
delicacy of expression,
and blacken our hearts once more.

I don't want to write anymore,
it's hurting me so much,
I'm losing myself in a sea of words,
of things I don't understand

I don't want to write anymore,
it makes me think about myself,
it makes me wonder why I bother,
why I am the way I am

I don't want to write anymore,
I just want to stop.
I need my head to stop circling,
I need my heart to collapse.

I don't want to write anymore,
I just need to understand
why it is,
that life makes no sense

I constantly try to control
what I say,
how I say it,
who I may hurt or embarrass
with my words.

But ****
it seems the more I try,
the worse I sound,
I speak words of total *******
I write poems filled entirely with *******

I worry so so much
about my voice,
that I forget what it feels like to just  
speak -
so d'you know what, tonight,
***** it

I find myself,
in a pit of total denial;
'I do not need anyone,'
I tell myself this each day
and this is
the first lie.

'You must wait'
As though this will provide me with some comfort,
as though this will ease the ebbing in my heart and
render me cold no longer -
this is
the second lie.

'Strength is  found through resilience',
I apply this to feelings of anything,
Banish any thought of anything other than the
emptiness I deserve to endure
and this is
the final lie.

I've refused my heart access,
to poems about love,

I've told myself over and over,
I don't need it anymore

I've solely allowed myself,
to revel in my heart ache,
by reading poems of a similar vain

But what I've just realised,
is to ignore the beauty of the little things,
to ignore the love that exists right now,
is such carelessness -
a total lack of regard for those who are,
at present,
engulfed in what once was.

I suppose we should keep reading the lover's poems,
someone needs to empower them, after all.

There's so many people,
Talking,
Communicating but never sharing;
No, never revealing,
Their true self
Because everyone's ashamed:
Of who they are,
what they believe in,
where they're from,
where they're going

So that's why,
I sit and watch sometimes;
Silent
Because its quaint really,
To see everyone pretend,
and occasionally,
watch the masks peel away

and when the darkness sets in,
the day has faded,
I think of you,
floating with the stars

loss is not something I'm accustomed to,
not something anyone should be,
but you're gone

I love to believe in
the place in the sky,
where you will be fine -
I love  to believe
that you are ever present
I love to believe
in fairy-tales.

clashing,
worlds connecting if only for a
breathless moment
as the darkness settles in.

You misunderstood my darling,
come closer, I'll whisper it to you;
closer now,
draw  in once more,
I crave nothing more than your twisted temptation -
close enough?

*******

You did hear me correctly darling,
there was no stutter,
you are deserving of nothing less,
that's just it you see,
you deserve less than nothing
for you care for no-one
for destruction forms your entertainment

You got it yet?
Don't you dare think that I feel anything
I am neither angry nor sad,
I do not hate you,
I am indifferent
sorry for the victimisation.

Confounded,
I don't know anything,
detached
from my
self
desperate
to be of value,
written,
******* words of *******
depleted
I continue to etch words on to paper,  
hopeful
of a reconciliation between my
self
and the words
I project.

I often spend my nights,
Plagued with insomniac thoughts,
A desire to be awake and alive,
A need to exceed expectations,
To be something to someone,

It's as if,
With the rise of the moon, I find myself able to see my ambitions,
With the rise of the moon, I am free of any demons and entanglements
And with the rise of the moon,
I am ready to face an implausible, unimaginable  dawn

there's an awful lot going on around me,
and most days I love it,
this last year has been the best and the worst

but sometimes,
I can feel it creeping over me,
this overwhelming itch that can
not be scratched
it sinks deep below the surface
it's this niggling feeling that everything is the best
and the worst

there's so much going on all the time
life has a habit of feeling like a
dichotomy
one second you're so high and everything is
the best; people, love, experiences
and the next you're plummetted and reminded of
the worst; yourself

as a writer, the reconciliation of the two sides is
the best and the worst

Children are born;
Perfect,
Flawless,
Well at least that's what they say.

One thing that cannot be denied,  
is a child's innocence.
There is no child that is born tainted,
By the circumstances of life;

A child is pure,
And they shall remain so,
Until life poisons them,  
In a unique way.

Thus, remember this:
Silencing innocence
Only magnifies,
intensifies,
the evils of this world
and the poisons within us all.

To say that,
All one wants
Is to be loved
Is quite a lie

To say that
All one needs
Is to find their lost soul,
Is to discover completion
Is not true

And to say that,
All one has
Is an ability to seek and search
Is an ability to love and be loved
Is utter *******

For,
Love is an acquired taste
Some would say its bitter
Others argue it has a sour note
And some, they find it tasteless
and therefore pointless

Ambering leaves are what I think of
when I think of what I've lost
Yes they are beautiful
Yes they are indeed my favourite
But they are dwindling,
dying out
they are not whole-hearted or right,
they are merely decaying

Let me tell you a tale;
of a double-sided coin,
stating the obvious, I know,
but you'll want to hear this.

The first side is cold,
cynical to the touch,
it shies away from all affection;
pushes and pushes and
pushes until they just
go

The second side is hidden,
filled with warmth and feeling,
is in love with beautiful souls,
yearns and yearns and
yearns silently,
concealed by the first side

The reconciliation of the two sides
is what makes me write.

I can feel it,
trickling,
petering,
everywhere

I can see it,
settling,
tumbling,
as dust falls

I can hear it,
whispering,
carving,
etched into silence

when they go,
it's so sudden,
cut-throat,
from having a physical support to just having no-one,
from being cared for to total mistrust,
of everything and everyone

People are like tattoos,
they ink themselves to your skin,
they leave markings,
not at all ephemeral

Scrambling,
Desperately seeking to return -
to the world I once knew,
the world once so familiar
now it's terrifying.

Lost,
Determined to retreat -
to a place I once loved,
a place where I once was a perfect fit,
and I no longer belong.

Frozen,
Seeking myself -
in a time where I was
confident,
strong,
fearless,
all qualities which have since been
stolen from my soul,
whisked away into the winter night.

I am not one whole person,
of that I'm certain;
there's a confidence within me,
an arrogance almost -
matched against a crippling shyness,
uncertainty of every judgement, I may make;

there's creativity,
it runs through my bones,
sending sparks and shivers accordingly

there's a loving mind
for those closest to me,
and for those things most intriguing
this is matched with my cynic's heart;
a fatal flaw,
I am cold within
for it is easier, there is no pain - that is
numbness

I am not a whole person,
I am incomplete,
I am not simplistic,
I am fragmented

I think I take up too much space;
my mouth is too loud,
my legs are too wide,
everything about me is clutter

I bring up the same boy that broke my heart,
I feel so distant to that girl now and yet,
it's like I'm nostalgic for the pain I put myself through
and for that, I am an *inconvenience

Tears cascade down my face once more,
They're never far -
Neither a friend nor foe,
I just wish I could hold myself,
Stand tall,
Push through it all,
Remain resiliant.

someone told me once,
that I write from the soul,
and bleed from the heart -
at the time I just brushed past it,
my mind occupied by other trivial things

and then someone else said,
you can only have an initial reaction to something once,
and it's only in that moment that true sparks will form

and I realised,
I skipped my chance to react to what he said,
simultaneously understanding the last thing he said to me,
'I too can be my own worst enemy'.

They speak only of strain,
both economic and physical,
They talk only of inconvenience,
of wasted resources,
They teach only worst-case scenarios,
of foolish mistakes made by
insignificant humans.

And it's ingrained within,
intrinsic and instinctive,
we no longer value individual lives,
we no longer care for other humans,
life-forms.

they never speak of the loss of life,
they never talk of the despair -
no,
we won't ever hear of their pain,
their desperation,
because, we are the privileged
and they are insignificant.

Hello
Hi
Welcome, it's an invitation to my crooked soul,
To my unwilling heart

You need not know my name,
For names do not explain why I am the way I am,
Why I write the way that I do;

All you need, is a little introduction, to the things that matter -

I love the moon and the stars,
In all their metaphoric beauty,
I live for the love both within and of fiction
But I do not crave to be in love myself,
Loud and shy simultaneously,
I fight with my own stupidity
A writer without a choice,
For without it I am
A crooked soul at best

I think too much,
much too much,
that I know;
guilt, sadness, worry all wash over me

and yet I am decidedly
content
I present myself as thoughtful
yet happy and if anything,
a bit dull

at the minute,
i'm running away from my head,
from my dreams,
from my plaguing personality,
rotting away at those I love,

let me tell you something,
there's a place I'd like to be right now,
and it's alone,
with my fingers and toes and inner thighs just
tingling.

this time last year,
you tried to scoop my heart up,
I threw it at you.

this time last year,
you liked me for who I was,
and I was terrible.

this time last year,
you thought you could love me,
and I was fickle.

last summer,
you thought it was our time,  
and I knocked you back.

last summer,
you wanted me more than before,
and I went along with it.

this autumn,
I hesitated before I left, did I love you back?
the answer is probably yes.

this autumn,
I walked away from you,
and fell for somebody else.

tonight,
I know that I made the right choice,
I love the boy I chose,
but this poem is for you
because I loved you also;

*and I probably always will.

how torturous
that memories are
inextricably linked to people
things
entities -
how cruel,
that we are unable
to untangle them from
one another
with the same ease as
said entity
erased themselves from
our lives.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful,
I know what I have;
i know how it feels to be in love,
I know how it feels to be settled.

Better than that,
I am accepted as I am,
and at face value,
I have my charms.

What is troubling me,
is the ceaseless confliction,
I am indecisive.

Yes I have found love and
I am content?

Yes, I know that he is ideal.
But my inebriated, fickle soul wants
exactly the opposite.

I get a rush,
blood surges to the surface,
vibrating throughout,
when I brush past boys I don't love,
boys that I don't need;
I feel like myself again.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful,
I know what I have.
He is wonderful, he is whole -
he accepts me for who I am;
it's just a shame that I do not.

I guess
I just
Want to feel something;
Anything really -

Fingertips tracing,
Lips meeting,
Touch after touch
Eyes searching,
Cheeks flushing

I guess
I just
Want to be something;
Anything really -

Alive,
Broken,
Torn apart
Engulfed,
Important

I guess
I just
Want something to happen;
No, not something,
It
Whatever 'it' is

I've never been wanted,
not truly,
always harping on about that same ginger boy who
took my  heart and squeezed it,
tightly, until it burst

he left me to clear up the mess, naturally

I've never been wanted,
until now,
and this thought consumes me,
swallows me whole -
not with arrogance,
but with disbelief,

you see,
my head's a mess,
my heart's even worse,
etched together in haste -
you see
I am wanted
by more than one
and my heart is greedy
I want them all
totally and completely





I told you,
my head's a mess.

what should i believe in?
could it be religion,
a thing i was raised with,
but now i question,
ironically,
religiously.

what do i believe in?
could it be in nothing,
and no-one,
thinking that we are
mere mortals,
and there is nothing for us after this.

what can i believe in?
when the god i have been told
loves us all,
shuts out so many people,
for their wants,
their desires,
their love

what is left to believe in?
i guess only myself,
and what a terrible
terrible weight
that feels.