Balance in all things.
We are kept apart by space and time
but connected through wires and electricity.

You are my living diary.
I whisper my secrets and
you code them into your heart.

I am your living list.
You share your thoughts and
I scribble them inside my mind.

We are connected through wires and electricity
but kept apart by space and time.
Balance in all things.

I've got a strange disconnect with today.
Everything is slow.
There is no wifi in my brain.
Even my fingers are slow on the keys.
The words do not curl across the pages.
I woke up and something was missing.

The pain is distant.
The world is clear.
There is no haze.
Time moves like water flowing under ice
or the creep of winter in the ground.

The world is there, but it isn't right.
I can't quite reach my patterns.
I can't touch the words or emotions that colour the world.
Writing chapters is beyond me.
Characters on the screen get no response.
My empathy is me,
but my emotions don't exist.

Pieces are shifting, ponderous and still.
I know I don't do slow.
I know I don't do still.
But I can't find quick.
There is no lightning.
It's like a rainbow gone translucent.
You know it was there,
but all that is left is clear drops.

My brain is like an old map.
There be dragons.
Empty lands.
The nothings not known.

The dreams will be weird.
Medication dreams are always strange.
Shattered glass
Liquid pools.
Thoughts that coalesce and break sharply.
Dreams aside,
I should sleep again.

For the life of me
I cannot see why
you bring such clarity with
your dark eyes and
laughter.

The tracks,
they quiet with the sound
of your voice. Shutting down
one by one
until the speed of my mind
slows.

On one hand,
a cosmic joke, never truly
to be mine.
On the other,
a gift so rare I cannot
help but find joy
in what we are.

A contradiction in terms
and a sweet sorrow.
We are beautiful
and strange, isolated
and together. There is
a belief, one for the other,
that gives us the strength
to be who we are.

Words are beautiful,
cruel, and fleeting.
They play in the writer's soul,
devouring the mind.
They tell the stories
that tie us together
and tear us apart.
They are friend
and foe
and frenemy.
They are gifts
given too quickly
or ripped from the heart.
They are
what we wish to be,
what we could never be,
and what we will become.
Bittersweet and passionate,
they exist as
our face to the world.
They are our masks
and the parts of ourselves
that we keep hidden.
They are little pieces
of our inner selves
that we give to the now.

I dream
of a little house with
a black and red kitchen
in a country where
the language
is not my own.

A cat on a chair
and a dog on the patio
as children play
in the yard between
the hedge and
the garden.

A hand on my hip
pulling me in
for a quick hug
and a sweet kiss
as your pan sizzles
and my chef's knife stills.

A teasing pat on my ***
and flour on your nose
signals laughter
and promises for later
as the sun sets
to the sounds of happiness.

Home is gentle
and soft
and strong
and true.

It is a smile
with dimples
and laughing,
coffee-coloured eyes.

It is the freedom
to be myself
and not hold
back my thoughts.

It is not having
to walk on eggshells
because, here,
my words are understood.

It is knowing that
between us
secrets don't exist
because dreams are shared.

Home is
close to my heart,
but far away
from where I stand.