You wont want to give me your whole heart,
But I’ll pick at the cement wall around it,
Piece by piece,
Night after night,
When the lights are out and your guard down.
Then when you’re most resistant,
I’ll fit.
Right through the hole I picked,
And steal it.
It will be warm and well nurtured,
You wont mind me holding on to it.
Even come to like it in my possession.
The more you like it the heavier it grows.
And a burden it becomes.
A weight too much to bear.
I'll find a nice place in the forest beneath the pines,
Or down by the water.
Night after night,
When the lights are out and your guard down,
I'll slip outside and pick at the earth,
A heart shaped hole just big enough to fit yours.
Then when you feel most secure, most safe,
I'll drop it, and bury it, and walk away.
It will grow cold,
And call to you through the breeze,
Or through the waves.
You wont hear and you wont search for it.
You’ll search for me, to no avail.
I’ve long mastered the art of escape.

I'm not meant to be here
And my time is short
"Time is what you make it", he replied
So I sat
But only for a while.
And together we stayed
But only for a while.
He sung to me and I listened
As well as I could amongst my own melody
Of poetry swirling and swaying,
Beating down the door bellowing
"Hear Ye!" until I no longer
Could ignore.
But his songs were sweet
And all the merrier
Accompanied by poetry and the ascending night.
"Sometimes all you need is a little loneliness," he said
"To take off your mask and be,
And to not be,
Who they think
You are.
But only for a while."
"You say -
"I am not meant to be here"
But the heart cannot withstand
Too much loneliness.
And it is getting dark
Out here."
"Be gone," he commands
"For your bones will chill
And things creep
Where there is no light."
"Be gone,
But sure to return.
If only-
For
A while."

Tonight I will sleep on my fragmented thoughts
that my anxieties found too delicate to embrace.

Crushed by nature and neglected from nurture
I'm not one to hoard but my head must rest.

Is it so wrong for a woman to caress her melancholy
as tenderly as she does her lover?

These pieces of madness once smelled so sweet
like the roses I've kept from years foregone.

I crowd my mind with scraps of death
to remind myself that what is dead, is never gone.

The bombs already drop
in rhythmic succession,
brewing but little
condemnation -
Millions bleed the colour of soil,
impoverished by
rich mans toil.
But no tear,
nor a note is shed  - unless,
they bleed the colour of
the dollar bill.

You know the type?
The ones that sit alone,
with their heads buried in books,
not even blinking an eye as
the midday trains go roaring past
as the school girls all hold
down
their
dresses.
With their blonde hair,
they all think they can be Marilyn Monroe.
Or Barbie.
But they're not fooling anyone,
and the boys only want
the trains to go screaming past again.

You know the type.
Always in clans,
looking like clones.
They're happy. I think.
At least they seem to be.
But the girl that sits by herself,
with her music loud enough
to drown out auditory reality,
she isn't.
And she doesn't even pretend to be.
And if she closes her eyes,
the visual world disappears too,
and reality no longer exists.
Then,
if you look closely,
you can see
a smile form.
It might only come along
as frequently as a blue moon,
but it's sure to make
a blind man weep.

Everyone has a ghost.
Some call them their first love.
I call mine you.

You're my ghost,
the stone in my heart.
And how does one -
erode a stone?

Vitrification?
Turn you into something,
pleasing to touch?

Oh -
but my hands are -
cold as snow.

Twice did our love see the roses of
St Valentines rising sun.
That which follows,
worse than the one foregone.
For we were never
the type,
to
obey.

The fourteenth day,
of that second month,
he came to me,
and I heard him say:
"My darling, for you I bestow a gift! -
the gift of irony
No gift at all."
He knew me,
and he knew
me
well.

O' then the second Valentines,
saw that this year,
I had a gift for him.
A gift he'd rather not hear.
A gift I'd rather not bear.
The gift to end
all
gifts.

Autumn blessed me,
with the deterioration of his memory.
And Winter cursed me,
with a heart of stone.
Spring breathed life,
into that which
I thought I'd
buried
alive.

And he's happy now.
He has another now.
And I'll be okay so long
as the sky remains blue,
and the setting sun leaves
the clouds
a rosy
hue.

Remove these photographs
from inside my skull.
Can't you see they're
making my heart too sore?
Take these rose-tinted glasses
from upon my eyes.
For I cannot bear
them

anymore.