Why is it that most of us men baulk
At the idea of having to talk
About issues we find troubling
Even when we know we’re not coping?
Why to men does it make much more sense
To say nothing, suffer in silence?
To shut out all those who might just care?
To refuse all the supports out there?
Why do we find it so hard to speak?
Do we feel reaching out makes us weak?
Do we think men must always be strong?
Maybe that’s where we are going wrong!
What a pity, what an awful shame
That our feelings we fear so to name,
That we can’t discuss our darkest fears,
That we are afraid of our own tears.
Oh when will the penny ever drop,
That this way of thinking has to stop?
For it shows great strength, courage indeed,
To ask for help in your hour of need.

I felt your envious eyes,
whisper tales of my true rank in life.
Untouchable, the dirt you wouldn't
grace your spit with.

A well fabricated quilt of lies.
To smother my heart and hold it
captive in the fires.
Of pure narcissism and self hatred.
Long after you left me here.

May our souls both find their peace.
Respectfully and may our hearts as dark and broken as they may be.
Mend themselves in the warmth, love and truth of the Sun once more.

I woke up in the wrong world
At the wrong time
I know the right words
But they don't rhyme

In the wrong shell
With the wrong mind
I'll never stop looking
But I know I'll never find

The wrong lips
Speak the wrong line
The wrong eyes
Miss the right sign

The wrong voice
For the right song
The perfect sound
Where it doesn't belong

The winter here is proper,
not like the weak attempts
of childhood.

I put on one of my father's old records,
and sinkdrown
into the swirl
of old memories -
the scent of oil and wood
his workshop
the musicdrone of cicada's
(that signaled the arrival of hot summer sweat and slick)
the scent of musk mixed with coffee grinds
and bodyperfume made sick with wine.

Old roofs
in the distance -
redwashed and orange
by the blood of a dying sun,
trickle blue smoke
from the mouth of an ancient-
         Baal of cold nights
         Suburban Moloch.

Hands are turned palecold.
Dove's once ,
dexterous fish now -
white and roasting
on the hot whisper
from a cup of coffee,
sometimes they
(mechanically or artfully)
invoke the means
to my own blue trickle.

A time machine
to that junkyard of stolen moments
we christen "memory".

Yet the sun still bleeds
and the sky is cauterised
by it's sacrifice.

Feeling your hot breath against my mouth as you exhale into me.
Your lips against mine, filling my body with unanswered desire.
A kiss so strong I have to steady my body against yours for fear of falling.
Timeless
As you find the light in me.

I hope you're happy.
I hope he makes you smile.
I hope when you have fun it's honest
I hope when you look back you forget I ever exsisted.
You aren't going to be able to stop me from juggling knives anymore.