As if from a dream,
Or maybe some time-soaked memory,
The white fabric hugged itself around me,
And opened my heart and lips to happiness,
As my eyes saw the girl in the mirror,
The same one from my dream,
And the curtain behind me becomes the cover of trees,
The seat beneath me a forest floor,
The light above me the stars of night,
And my breaths become a song.

You've been tying me up,
With the ribbon in your hair,
And the bobby pins going straight through my heart.

I've been trying to copy your style,
But my curls go everywhere,
And it wouldn't wouldn't suit the colour of my eyes.

You've been telling me,
Don't worry about what they see,
Just wear it how you want,
But lately,
They've been telling me,
There's someone else they want me to be,
And it's not who I am now.

I've been basing my look off you,
Since I fell in love with your smile,
And the colour of my makeup is your fault.

But I know that sometime,
I'm going have to work out my own style,
And what I want the world to make of me.

Now, I've become obsessed,
With the way that you dress,
And how you walk,
And the way you move when you're talking to me.

How, how can you say,
That this is not the way?
When like this I smile,
And like this I feel I could finally be free.

This place speaks in ink,
In pixel-perfect scrawls,
Drafts are in the past,
Replaced by a backspace
Key in a keyboard that plays songs
In words not sound.

Inspiration has no value,
Unless it makes you rich,
Who writes for fun?
No marks, no grades, for wasting away
Hours on crafting power,
Into words.

The language we've learnt,
Is disposable, recyclable,
Play-the-game cheatable,
Not truth but jumping through hopes,
No reward for moving forward,
Creativity by method.

I'm scared in broad daylight,
A glance at me earns a label:
'Threat'

I can't afford to be seen through,
For my label to be clear and
Open for attack.

I know that being me is not
As safe as living a lie,
But there's no choice.

They don't understand,
That I am a target from the moment
I step outside.

I have to hide,
But I can't.

The cloak is three minutes fast,
Counting the age of these pages,
Ahead of time.

The dust settles three minutes late,
Fingerprints and broken spines delayed,
In broken time.

These words live three minute lives,
Conceived and captured with only a short pause,
To take the time.

The clock is three minutes fast,
Looking back at the new becoming classic,
So little time.

A light, three tiles, another light,
Not white but tinted: blue, pink, green,
The ceiling's closer, muffling my thoughts,
As it deadens the voices around.

The window's open a crack,
A slim strip of sky let in,
But the air is dense, filled with heat,
And dry confused conversations.

The wall is plain, just white,
But washed in the yellow reflection of day,
The only colour here needs a good eye,
Otherwise, all is grey.

I do not have an empty mind,
It's just filled with pointless things:

Beauty, music, the smell of the air,
The shades of blossom and grass,
Romantic feelings, laughter and smiles,
The sound the birds make in spring,
Flowers and words to describe them,
Hope, ambition, inspiration,
The way sunlight glints on leaves,
How I feel, how I wish I felt,
What I want to do with my life,
Who I am.

Pointless.

The light makes my eyes drop,
The heat makes me weak,
My ears close to outside,
And fill with songs of sleep.

My hand becomes my pillow,
My chair becomes my bed,
My eyelids, now, my curtains,
As stars light up my head.

In an instant,
The shades turn to pixels,
The beauty pulled and twisted into,
Strings of numbers.

A perfect imprint,
A reflection of time,
In a misty mirror,
A sun-lit filter.

Sand brushed frames,
A memory distorted,
By over-exposure, poor lighting and blur.

A laugh captured between breaths,
The light in those eyes,
A reflection of a lens.

A moment I'd forgotten,
But lives on in fading ink
Losing its shine with time.

Is it too late?
Did time force my hand too far?
As much as I push back,
I can't get off this path,
And my fate remains.

There's a face smiling,
One I seem to know but can't place.
She's running in the summer fields,
Laughing in her new dress.

Her mother's watching,
She's smiling too,
And her father joins in.

And together they're dancing,
Through the rare bright days,
And she is happy.

But I feel like I miss her,
And I know she's gone,
As she runs out of sight.

Now another face,
The same but older,
None of the joy in her eyes,
Leaning against an oak.

She's singing to herself,
And I know the song,
And her voice is my own.

Some people need kindness
The storms and burn of life have beat them down
Every turn they take is filled with broken hearts
And minds and lives
Every day demands a sacrifice of blood and tears
But their body is empty.

Some people want kindness
That they've grown accustomed to being given
Without charge or return they want help
And false smiles and sympathy
But they can't lift a finger or open their mouth or wallet
To help the empty.

Some people deserve kindness
Through every whirlwind of pain they kept both eyes on others
Though they fell they would refuse attention
And bandages and pain relief
Until all those around received theirs first
While they empty out their heart on others
And let their own soul suffer alone.