Every summer, off we go
we pack the van and leave
where we'll end up we don't know
we drive and then we'll see.
My family become nomads
we travel across the land
we see our friends and family
the time we have is grand.
We sleep under the moonlight
and sing around the fire
we live this way till autumn,
doing as our hearts desire.
We came here to get petrol
and lots of sweet supplies
the sign said "we have WiFi"
in truth, I almost cried.
It's fun to be a nomad
and live without a care
but it's nice to touch base now and then
to know the world's still there.

at the death
of the day's candle,
the night makes fun
of its brief life,
sending the stars
to pin its soul,
forgetting,
nature has no end,
it is only a routine
designed by the heaven.

then
our granny spoke,
manners are the gate
that opens to the kingdom
where, on the chairs, sit
respect and honour.

then
our granny spoke,
manners are the rainbow
that materialises after
the heavenly grace and bliss
shower on our heads.

so we spoke,
manners are our breath,
our each step on the mat,
on the marble, our bridge
where long-lived fame stands.

My grandpa took me camping
it was an intervention
this was denied by him of course
as soon as it was mentioned.

We pitched a tent on forest floor
told tales around the fire
we swam the lake and walked the hills
no WiFi his desire

The night was filled with twinkling stars
the heavens lay before us.
We woke refreshed and entertained
by a hundred bird dawn chorus.

We packed our kit and travelled home
of signal I was dreaming
I heard that beep, so comforting
my cue to begin streaming!

You pull on my lip like an aircraft emergency oxygen system.
Our engines catch fire
as our tongues flutter like the wing's peeling metal,
and as our eyes peek at one another
between each plane crash of lips.

We've lost cabin pressure
as we can no longer control our bodies.
We gasp for each other's breath
as our shimmering structures
roll around on the sky of my bed.

We kiss like we've only got seconds left,
when in reality,
these moments will never die
even if we do.

Drop me a line, send me a text
it gives me such a thrill
to get a message, make a friend,
for when I've time to ****.

The world is full of people
rushing through their daily tasks,
life running on a treadmill,
slowing down too much to ask.

So tell me how your day went
and I'll share mine with you
a little light of friendship
shines so bright when one is blue.

I'm just a kid, with an inkstained heart
My pen another limb
looking out for all the answers
to these times we're living in.

So I'll wish you all good morning,
may you smile throughout your day
and may love and friendship find you
as you go along your way.

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines

on a broken stone
sat the poet, guessing
the words on them.

He couldn't do;
his wisdom cursed him.

one of the them
rose upto hid face,
and said swinging,

"you failed.
your mind is a fiasco
for imagination is greater
than the power of understanding.

I handed in my homework
Gave it with a nervous smile
the paper damp from sweaty palms,
the waiting was a trial.

Today I got my paper back
from the dreaded Mr Barr
he grinned at me and gave a wink....
along with an A*!

He said I made him chuckle
as he read my little rhyme,
he thought the rhyming clever
and the rhythm quite sublime

He asked me one last question
in the hallway where we met
with deep concern upon his brow
"Did you find your brother yet?"

Now I'm hiding in the bathroom
racing with the lesson bell
quickly writing this wee poem
to let you know my work did well.

My brother's somewhere hiding,
first comes counting, then comes finding
but this child that I am minding
my last nerve he's tightly winding

Mum and Dad have gone out dining
on their date night, romance shining
while the little brat is whining
hidden in the curtain lining

So I'll get on with my writing
cause it must be more exciting
to be sat here with my rhyming
as my skills they need refining.

Now the little ork is pining
still not found, my name he's crying
eyes accusing me of lying....
Is a pinky promise binding?

If
your eyes
catch the sunrise in the mist,

If
your hands
hold the moonlight in the dark,

If
your legs
walk on the holy stones in the temple,

If
your mouth
opens to speak water in the lake,

Remember
you are beautiful
among the people on the earth.

I don't want to go out dancing
I don't want to "hang" with boys
I don't want to wear a push up bra
(Not that there's much to push)
nor make out in some grubby car.

I don't want to cake on make up
I don't want to weave my hair
I don't want to wear stilettos
Or a skirt cut up to where??

I just want to write my poems
play my games and read my books,
have some decent conversation
not based around a popstars looks
(Or the *** he's *******)

I know I'm odd but please don't judge me
I'm a girl, just not the same
call me names and laugh behind me
call me ******, call me lame.

Maybe someday you will see me,
well payed job and handsome man
and wonder how I got that lucky
just by being who I am.

Yet for now you only see me
as a nerd, a geek, a jest,
Take your hot pink lip gloss, sweetie
and push that pram like all the rest.