There are galaxies in your eyes.
On sleepless nights, I want to stare
Into the constellations in your iris,
And watch as the galaxies spin endlessly
With every breath, every smile, every heartbeat.
I can see, in your eyes
Every ocean, every sea, every body of water.
When you’re calm, they’re lazy rivers,
Gently flowing along.
But as you become passionate, the rivers
Turn into seas, the waves rocking me.

I wouldn’t mind being in space alone
Or being lost at sea,
If it meant I had a little part of you with me.

new people, new thoughts,
and now doing everything
with purpose, afraid.

you make me so unbelievably happy
that flowers have started growing everywhere;
in the vase you left on my windowsill,
in the pillowcase you used last time you slept here,
and in my body, my heart, my lungs.
the air is cleaner, the sky clearer,
i can breathe again.
every so often, i cut a daisy
from around my throat and put it in my hair.
i use them as a reminder
of what you mean to me.
the oxygen in my lungs mixing
with the soil and stems and leaves and petals.
i use them to make me feel alive.

two litre bottles of wine,
one bottle of port
two high juices
and christmas crackers.

when she kissed him, she could taste
the coffee on his lips,
and the hints of nicotine on his tongue.
she could smell herself;
her perfume buried deep in the lines on his body,
reminding her where she'd been.
as they kissed she heard their breath
combine together in time, as one,
no longer separate. the same person.
behind her eyelids, stars collided
over and over again, psychedelic patterns
tracing themselves deep in her skin like scars.
and the butterflies in her stomach,
the tingling of her lips and his hands on her back
drew her back to reality - drew her back to him.

i'm laying in bed
and i can't seem to close my eyes
without worrying.
i sometimes lose focus
on the things i think i want,
like a camera that doesn't
zoom in quite enough on the sunset
that has the perfect mixture of colours.

i suppose that the best
i can hope for in the future is for
the sunset to get closer.
or to buy a better camera.

everywhere i go, i've got my phone in my hand.
everything i do is documented
recorded in a profile for the world to see,
just for my own memory.
i plug myself in, charge up, and go,
selfies and tweets and reblogs galore
as i go about my life like a character
whose storyline is already in place.
my character arc is part of the way through,
and to complete it, i suppose,
i must stay connected.

i'm so afraid that
you do not think about me
as much as i you.

I am the bitterness of ***** streaming down your neck,
and you are the sweetness of caramel. Smooth, sultry,
enticing.
I am black coffee on a stark, bleak Autumn-Winter morning,
frowning faces and angry remarks lingering on the tips
of tainted tongues, broken glass and empty bottles
clinking quietly on a rickety shelf,
ready to crash down and fall.
You are camomile tea on a Spring evening, smiling, sipping,
loving comments whispered in the ear of someone you love,
something whole and full, ready to cushion the fall
of someone broken.
You are much more than you think you are,
and you make me more than just bitter and broken.

sadness is material.
the sobs my foundations for something stronger
the tears cement for my brick towers
the pain to remind me that this is real.
this is real.
i am a person and i am real.
i was born and one day i will die,
but this sadness, with its melancholy hope,
is the material to make my existence worthwhile.
i am sad, and one day i will not be sad.
but whilst i am sad i will create things so that
when i look back on my bad days
i will smile and understand that
it’s not all bad.
sadness is material,
there to prove me - and everyone else - wrong.

my mind, body and soul
can't take much more of this,
the constant stress
the sleepless nights
the exhaustion.
i'm so ******* tired.

after brushing,
i put my fingers on each tooth
and try to move them one by one.
maybe, i think, i'm going through
childhood once again
in order to re-learn myself,
and the constant headaches just mean
that my new personality is teething.
i think about seeing myself shrink back
and become what i am in my head --
a scared child,
lost in a supermarket,
too-bright lights high in the air
making it feel like a hospital room,
reverting me back to my initial state.

i haven’t kissed you in days.
it’s been hundreds of hours
since i’ve had physical contact with you,
and i feel like i’ve forgotten the feeling
of your skin on mine, your lips on mine.
i haven’t kissed you in days.
there are miles between us
and it feels further right now,
because hearing your voice on the phone
makes it feel like you’re here,
but only silence reaches my ears.
i haven’t kissed you in days.

Taking a step back to look at things
isn’t always enough;
steps are small, shuffles on pavement,
scuffed shoes moved inches -
they only look a bit smaller.

When hearts skip beats like bass drums
a step is not enough;
but what’s the difference between
stepping back
and
walking away?

I loves U
and I knows
that
U loves I.

we write things down and keep them away
to hide how we feel, we vent,
and it looks like we bottle it up
and it causes confusion.

we will love you the same way we love
the books we write, the poems we weave;
as though you are our creation,
and as though we can preserve you by keeping you on a page.

not a lot will live up to the world
that we live in in our heads, the fantasies
we concoct to create a story,
so unlike the real world.

*but because of these worlds, we can help
create a life for ourselves with a place for you,
with strong hopes and aspirations
and we are always faithful to the ideas that we have.

none of the words come out right anymore. i’m mentally stuttering, and my engine is dying. my words aren’t flowing anymore, they’re clotting like blood on my skin. and sure, every so often i’ll pick at the scab and it might come back for a while, but it’ll dry and heal and never show again. because my work is often like a wound. my words are like blood; they only really come when i’m stumbling with a grazed knee, sobbing like a child. they only flow when i’m hurt. i start to beg for a bandage, wishing for the blood to stop. and when the blood stops, the pain stops, and then the words.

being on a train
reminds me of the nervous
exciting feelings.

"One is the loneliest number,"
but I like being alone - sometimes.
I don't like being home alone,
too jumpy for complete solitude,
would prefer to spend time with someone
when we're in separate rooms because
distant sounds of life are more comforting
than no sounds at all.

Music is good at filling in the gaps,
it twists up the stairs and under doors
until the house bursts (into song).
It's like colours for your ears,
not quite your housemate coughing downstairs,
but it fits in with being alone
being alone fits in with music
being alone doesn't fit in with people.

The other day
we strung up fairy lights for New Year's,
popped prosecco because we're too cheap for champagne,
kissed under confetti with glitter on our lips.

It's been grey since then,
the after party is never as good as the real thing.

i live and breathe my words.
that's why sometimes they're
complicated, difficult to get out.
i'm asthmatic, and struggle
to exhale and rhyme and write
without wheezing typos and not pressing enter for each new line.
but when i'm inspired,
my lungs have no limit.
i breathe in and out freely,
i write fluidly, and i create.
and i live.

happy, cheerful, nice to everyone,
but also a stinky, slobbering mess,
he greets everyone with a smile
and his tail beating against their shins.
whilst i watch on, unmoving, unsmiling,
waiting for him to finish his silent conversation
and move on,
to **** up the next lamp post.

it's hard living in a house in which
you're never welcome.
watching the foundations for a new family
being cemented into the ground
whilst you're still sat among
the burning embers of the last one, alone.
it's hard knowing that you're living
in a time before all of this,
but at the same time embracing
the other side of it.
one half smouldering and the other
a house by the sea, waves crashing, birds singing.
split into two; two sides, two families,
neither the one you remember.

grey skies are pretty.
the matter of concealing
the sun intrigues me.

it hits. hard.
like a ton of bricks
being swung at your chest
like a wrecking ball at a building,
it knocks you sideways
and you lose control.
everything becomes involuntary,
i don't even know what words
are spouting from my mouth anymore.

i hate losing control.
i hate this.

she only smokes when it's rained;
too anxious to drop ashes on dry ground
like the world will burn up behind her.
charcoal footprints follow
the cloud of smoke that is her body -
roaring fire tongue that spits embers
to sizzle in puddles.
flame-ridden girl too afraid of herself
so she smothers her words until they're ash
flicked from a cigarette.

when we kiss, my heart
explodes into a thousand
tiny butterflies.

i never realised
that i liked the taste until
this got a lot worse.

what the hell would i be without you? honestly,
i can’t see an image of myself existing
unless you’re in the picture.
i wonder if this is what it feels like
to have a soulmate,
the sensation of giving yourself
to someone wholeheartedly,
and to have every little thing reciprocated.
it’s a very fulfilling feeling, really,
being so infatuated
that nothing seems scary anymore.

when she was younger,
she stumbled and fell whilst running
from the boys
playing kiss chase in the park.
she sat there for a moment,
staring at the crimson scrape
on her left knee,
and bit back the tears.

years later, drunk,
she stumbles and falls whilst running
from the man
insisting on playing "kiss chase".
she refuses.
she sits and watches the blood
turn into a waterfall on her shin,
and lets the tears fall.

i find myself writing slowly just to put off doing more work.
i get so tired that the world gets fuzzy and i can't focus on one thing
and the information goes in and out without me learning what
can actually help me when i get inside the exam hall.

i need a reason, a purpose
to get out of bed in the morning,
to be washed and dressed and to face the day.
since i left education, i've done nothing
but watch 4 seasons of abc's revenge
and mope about in my pyjamas
until i'm told to stop by my mother.
jobs are hard to come by,
and i no longer have a reason to be.
i know my entire purpose is to just be,
but sometimes that isn't enough.

lay with me, and look down
across mountains and ridges
in the blankets.
we can make tectonic plates move
just by shifting our legs
so that another part of our bodies
is touching.
we are capable of more than we know;
we are giants to ants,
able to change so much by
doing so little.
the shifting of a leg,
the whisper of words.
we can do anything.
we can move mountains
in the blankets.

hearing you tell me
"i love you" makes my heart skip,
run, jump, fly, spin, laugh...

i've found myself staying awake later
in an attempt to avoid the nightmares.
my dreams are often horribly vivid,
and it causes me great distress
when i dream of family members dying,
or of being chased down by masked people,
or losing everything
failing everyone.

i've had bad earaches
since i was little, the worst
made my hearing worse.

nothing is safe when
your darkest secrets are cast
out into the world.

I don't know what
I want to do with
this life I've been handed down
through generations
of smiles and laughs and love.
I don't know how
I'm supposed to be
grateful for the heart
that beats in my chest each day,
when I don't know
how to use it.
I don't know when
I'm going to know these things.
I don't know a lot.

the sky sets slowly
over the sea, blues and pinks
wash my windowpanes.

to myself,
i don't know what the purpose of this is,
but you need to stop drinking straight whiskey
just because the burn in your throat reminds you that
you are not a machine,
built to follow the guidelines of a "perfect life",
but you are alive.
if you want to feel something,
tell your mum you love her,
walk with no destination,
or laugh and live.
just don't buy whiskey next time.
from,
chloe.

when you're amidst a hoard
of bad days,
it's easy to only see the things
that go wrong.
but looking back, in ten, twenty
even fifty
years, the bad days
are like clouds
with the good ones
shining through.

i'm drinking coffee at night to make my mind work.

i'm finding it hard
to make the words form new worlds.
i just can't focus.

please don't let this
all be for nothing, I'm scared
that I'm failing you.

rain in warm weather
creates so much confliction.
it's so ******* hot.

it's hard to think of
the pros and cons of something,
i've no point in this.

a father creates
expectations, good or bad,
towards other men.

i can't transform my tears
into the words i need.

she's tired, sitting there
with a cigarette between her lips
that trembles as she shivers.
her brain is frozen, fixated
on that one memory of him
smiling and lighting
the cigarette between her grinning teeth.
the sensation used to bring her solace
on dark, cold nights like this.
but now,
now she sits there, tired,
for ours on end; an unlit
cigarette hanging there,
waiting for him.