I've got my eyes slighty squinted,
as we spin round on a carnival ride.
I can almost smell the ocean from here,
as it washes in with the tide.

I can feel the dangling of my untied shoelaces,
and I can see people's faces
blurring with the bright colours of their clothes.
I am wearing my light grey dress,
and we are both laughing,
our hair is tangling together in a ginger and blonde mess.

I catch a glare of sunlight in my eyes,
so I close them and watch purple and green patterns dance
against the darkness of my eyelids,
I open them to realize that
no longer are we kids.

We are in the back seat of your car,
it's 2 AM and it's raining outside,
no longer are we on the carnival ride.
You try to tickle me in a flirtatious way,
and when I say I have to leave,
you beg me to stay.
I say goodnight,
and hug you tight.

Then,
Slowly,
I bring my face closer to yours,
and kiss you gently.

You kiss me back.
Once,
Twice,
and again.
Our lips begin to dance together,
Waltzing to the rhythm of the rain.

The scent of your skin fills my lungs,
and it adds a sensual feeling
to the embracement of our tongues.

Your hand slips beneath my shirt
as I pull yours off,
it feels like my heart is free of all its hurt.
Wandering hands in the darkness of night,
my eyes are fixated on you,
admiring your body in flickering streetlight.

Your breathing becomes shallow,
and I feel like you want me,
only me.
But I know now that it's just...
Lust.

You and I separated long ago. The only writer
I ever loved. I try to find myself in
between your words, lingering somewhere deep
in your inspiration, but I don’t think
I’m there. You always made them up,

but I knew you better than that. Recycling
moments from the past to make a fake
love feel real. I don’t love you.
I only wish I could see your memories of me
living on through your fingertips,

the way you do through mine. We live separate
lives in the same vicinity, touching the same
people. If you had told me this years ago,
I wouldn’t have believed that even a single
degree could separate you and I.

We were each necessary for the other
to mature. My biggest fear is that I didn’t
help you grow as a writer. So what
if we matured? If being loved by me
didn’t improve your writing, then it was all

for nothing.

One day I'll see the world,
Have dust on my feet
From a thousand different lands.

I'll travel with dusty feet,
Musty books,
Camera in hand,
Adventure beckoning me on.

Maybe I'll have no home,
I'll be a wanderer-
Maybe we need more gypsies-
Maybe I'll have
Barely a penny to my name.
I'll spend it all on plane tickets,
I'll earn my roof and food
By telling stories,
Penning poems.

Maybe when I'm an old lady,
People will tell stories
Of the crazy girl
Who came from a town so small
She had to travel the world
To find out more
About who she was.

Maybe people will be talking
Before I've even left,
About the crazy girl
With crazy dreams
Who's going to do crazy things
And change a crazy world.

But being called crazy
Is a small price to pay
To do things no one's done.

It just means I realize
The stars aren't so far away
If you know how to believe.

It just means
I'll have stardust
On my feet
From a thousand different suns.

It takes energy to love,
and energy cannot be created nor destroyed.
Does it mean that my love for you has always been and always will be?

Nobody takes a photo
Of something they want to forget.

i think you're perfect
but i don't think we would be
your personality is softer
but your feelings and actions
are much harsher

if i were raised a little less like my mother
wanted me to be
showing me what not to do
as she placed the cigarette between her lips
maybe we would have been more alike

i know your internal struggles and feelings
all too well
as they are ones i've experienced before
and experience now

although your friends problems seem
all too real
as compared to mine
which are all in my head

It is a morning like no other
when hope is smeared across the skies
Among the mourners I am alone
death cannot bind, when life could not.

A law binds us of old, to kinsmen
and clansmen, and the court
of law can be crooked
where evidence is omniscient.

In the chamber of faith
elevated on the altar
where we light pious incense
is the decorated image
of disbelief - for death
here, is the final word,

and who knows if there was
one in the beginning?

In the heart, the answer
where a wave knocks
of love, daring storms
and disregarding falls,
waiting to wash our feet
and cleanse our lives.

So are we here for a time,
on a sojourn we meet awhile:

Now darkness is overcast
and shadows grow on the walls
Now time is distant
and memories pale
But the miracle of your advent
never fades in my soul.