The rain crystallizes,
Collecting fragments of neon lights,
Like shards of beach glass,
Hoarded onto the windows,
London,
" the city that never sleeps ",
Poor thing,
Kept awake by the incessant sounds of its thousands of inhabitants,
Half-dipped in Latte froth,
And skinny soy mochas,
Ode to a vacant city,
Too exhausted,
Can you hear the Void calling?

I write poetry because... it is everything I will never be.
It is everything I wanted to say but never did.
Without it, I feel like scissors to violin strings.
Pulled apart, as if I was some case study, just waiting to be dissected.
Some unwanted biology lesson.
I pour my heart into these pages.
Crisp, white pieces of my mind.
Sometimes you just have to stop and observe the world.
Like you aren't in it.
Like you're watching some old black and white film.
Watching all your friends laughing together.
You feel as if you aren't in it.
The fact that you aren't there doesn't change a thing.
They're living their lives, all of them, together in that room.
While you watch.
Not alongside them.
Feeling as if life is truly a movie.
The other times you are part of this movie as a whole, you don't notice the other people who are all looking at the same things.
Thinking the same stuff.
That life is just a movie, with its actors and actresses, it's differing scenes.
It would easily go on without you if you didn't take place in it.
At that point, you realise that being afraid that somebody else will take your place, is irrelevant...
Cause somehow, everyone's place will be taken anyway, and that's because the movie is setting a new cast, and this time it's one thing you might not take place in.
Weird... I know.
Everything just seems to slot in perfectly without you there.
Almost like you were born into the wrong film.
Or handed the wrong script.
Like this isn't your life.

Perfect lives,
Perfect paradise,
Snap, snap, snap and the camera is clear,
Flash, flash, flash and a couple of hashtags then add a filter to hide,
That splinter- the splinter in your mind scratching inside telling you to do this till you die,
Watching me, watch me, love and adore me, likes, views, and comments are all that feed me.
Trying to surpass your perfect life, it’s a ******* circle with a stabbing knife.
You’re missing out on life, you see nothing at all and you call this an adventure.
Once in a lifetime trip with the sun and the sand, you’re sitting with your phone in your hand and all that you're worried about is streaking your fake tan,
This is fakery in the making.

Ode to the artist,
Who wears her heart on her sleeve,
Who never leaves her house without a paintbrush,
Who'd rather go on a date to a gallery,
Instead of a coffee shop,
Who's got more paint on their clothes,
Then in their art boxes,

Ode to the muse,
Who're aching soft hands are caught in her dark, messy hair,
Leather jackets, skinny jeans and cat-eye eyeliner,
Electric eyes,
She's a devil on fire,
She's got your name written on a cigarette,
So with every drag,
It burns a little more and hurts a little less,

Ode to the poet,
Who sits on her window ledge,
Watching the city lights,
With her head in the clouds,
At 4 am,
Tired, stargazey eyes,
That sparkle in the sunlight,
She observes from afar,
Watching cautiously from the dark,

Ode to the bookworm,
The wild child,
With a taste for adventure,
The braveheart,
Who spends more time in fictional worlds,
Then in the one that's real,
There's a certain fire in her eyes,
And it's starting to spread.

It's exciting,
To run through the blazing light,
To escape these forever days,
To escape the non-stop reality,
To just be this naive child again,
Who loves and explores with glimmering, hopeful eyes,
Who chases butterflies that run away from her into a sunshine haze,
As a child,
I would have underwater tea parties,
Dreamy aquatic wonderland,
I was too stubborn to come up for air,
Forever lost in my imagination,
Now I am older,
I spend my time hiding in trees,
Because, c'mon, who remembers the nights that they got good sleep?
I read to escape this non-stop reality,
We get so lost in pretending,
That we forget, we are only a moment,
It's strange, isn't it?
In one minute,
Or sixty seconds,
This little oasis of madness,
Will be gone,
Isn't that sad?
But we're too young to be sad,
I feel bad for the people who will never go insane,
I mean... You can't get lost if you don't know where you're going,
If you hadn't already realized,
Behind my smile is everything you will never quite understand,
So I'm just going to ignore the fact that you're trying to read me,
I'm going to blast this music until I can't feel a ******* thing,
We are the teens out parents warned us about,
The punks, the poets, the outcasts, the misfits,
We're just the Lost Souls,
So here's to the nights that made us feel alive,
Where we stayed up until the sunrise,
Breathing new life into old lungs,
Even when we were choking on laughter,
Lost in worlds that don't exist,
Sway seconds, ecstatic bliss.

Dearest wildflower grinning,
With powdery, crooked teeth,
Hair, incandescent and unusual,
Bright-eyed,
Bright mind,
I write this although it was my last,
Follow me into the Holocene,
And the night ghosts will not steal your eccentric soul,
You shall always be an epitaph for the ages,
Your happiness plastered on pages,
Your blue eyes dance away,
Your irises discoloured and grey,
Never has indigo seemed so violent,
Never has Auburn seemed so opaque,
And for strong tongues to seem so silent,
And Berlin nights,
And London days,
David Bowie,
Our Ziggy, Our Starman,
Now there is life on Mars.

You painted catharsis,
Colourful,
On the doors of a house, you've never lived in,
Because anywhere would do,
Nowhere really felt like home,
Do you remember me?
The thud of broken hearts,
Buried deep within our chests,
Human eyes can most accurately see
the most shades of green,
But... I don't know what it was about you,
But... with you,
You felt like a lucid blue,
You'd throw your hands into the air,
Like you were the holy Messiah,
At least... you made me feel holy,
And you'd whisper strange things to me,
And it would make me laugh way too loud,
Because you liked the way I laughed,
Easy. Breathe. Easy. Breathe.
I remember watching the moonlight dancing off the walls,

Beaming white on blue
Speaking softer than any storm,
Lover of darkness,
Queen of the cool breezes,
The seas of neon light expire,
And set me free,
Wind washing clichés,
Rain-soaked hair,
We talk rapidly,
We vigorously trip over each other's sentences,
Like they're paving slabs,
I was freaking out again,
Standing in the shower,
Trying to drown out the thoughts,
That was climbing haphazardly through my aching head,
We wrote our names onto the foggy glass windows.