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.

The heart does not ask pleasure first,
It does not crave the feelings of passion,
lust or desire

The heart does not ask pleasure first,
It is not considerate to the essential realism,
The morale of the mind

The heart does not ask pleasure first,
Instead it seeks only to be felt,
Whether it be pounding
or merely ceaseless ebbing

The heart does not ask pleasure first,
It asks for pain, for despair,
for anything to provide a reminder,
that it is always there

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

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.

Everything seems to happen
to everyone else;
relationships form and
break apart,
dreams are achieved and
shattered also -

yet, I am left,
overlooked,
cast aside -
the spectator.

I can never understand,
they think,
she's not be trusted,
they envisage,
just leave her to the side, she'll interject if she wants to
and I never do, not anymore.

because,
I am nothing
I am merely a reflection for everybody else
to glance at once
in a while.

tonight I realised,
the implications of having a pal,
someone who you see in both the moon
and sun,
someone who you would happily lay bare for,
secrets sprinkled and insecurities glistening.


tonight I realised,
the importance of self,
allowing myself to remain as whole as possible,
for when the other one starts to crumble,
i felt my torso dissipate.

tonight I realised,
the desperation of love,
something so tangible,
it is etched onto your corneas,
for when he shatters,
you can seldom hold it together.

tonight I realised,
I am really ******* in love,
and consequently ******* *******.

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 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

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

please don't stop me
from being a dreamer
an idealist
a critic

i need those parts of me,
a sense of purpose in
a
   confused navigation of my twenties

i am sorry i am not
what you thought i would be,
grateful and desperate for an organised life,

actually,
no i'm ******* not.

If only I was different,
if the thoughts that encompass my mind
were different
were less,
then maybe I wouldn't be so isolated
Desolate.

If only I could show you
that somewhere within
I want all the things I fear aloud
I yearn for somebody to care enough
To push through the occluding ****
That I put up

I want nothing more
Than the  destruction of the isolation
of the desolation
that is worked through my bones

Break me down again,
It was a great
source of inspiration for a while there.

i'm scared
that its all gonna fall apart
me and you
fall apart at the seams
because you and i
are never in the same place

it used to annoy me
how much you wanted me
all the time; as though i was a new toy

guess i was right about that
because now you're too tired to even ask

i'm scared
that we could be over
i don't want us to be over
but i
can't keep the grey out
much longer.

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.

Much as nature
decays
I crumble: ceaseless in the cycle
of life,
Death draws closer
with each piercing breath
I am wilting;
with no respite as I
hit
the ground;
landing softly on the harshness of death,
where I will remain,
a constant nothingness -
a mere whisper in the dark

Is it lame
that I wanted last night to be different,
that I didn't want the poison to trickle down
my throat for no reason

Is it stupid
that I made an effort last night,
that I was undeniably happy and yet
no one seemed to care

Am I lame
because I wanted someone to
replace the taste of toxic
leaving their scent on me  
so I wasn't alone

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.

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.

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 always have something to say,
it's what I'm known for,
I speak with ease,
with fear,
with anger or frustration,
with anxiety.

I always know to speak,
whenever,
with whomever
I may come across -
even though it's true,
I sometimes struggle,
to stop
the words
as they tumble from my mouth
without a second glance.

I always want to write,
to use those words to
create pictures,
to allow interpretations -
alas, this seems to be the
sole time
that words
fail me.

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

Writers write,
about love,
about self worth,
about doubt.

I write,
about the absence of love,
and then the struggles when it comes,

I write,
about self-worth,
it's importance and the consequential arrogance of my
self.

And I write
about doubt -
and my apparent addiction to it.

I wish we could write
about different things,
like the death of frogs,
or disappointing fries and burnt toast.

But I know,
that we write not out of choice,
but in search of solace.