Tip toe here I go, in darkness I aim for
the prize. Floor boards creaking, old
warped through time, like a mine field
of noise keeping quite as my feet one
step at a time.  

Lowy in stealth I walk, past the creaking
darkness covers my shadow. I slowly
reach the stairs, I must be quicker so
others not to know, walking the corridors
and be caught unawares.

Leg over the banister here i go WOW,
Whoosh I go down, an Inch or three
a painful end to where I wish to be.
Tiles like ice my digits now like tiny
ice cubes, can a floor really feel like
I'm walking bare foot in snow.

The door I open thankful of reaching
my goal, but shock meeets me, as ajar
I open to find not one but all. Sitting
quite as a mouse, all had taken the
journey not to wake others from
different parts of the house.

We laugh and joke of what we had
done to get this snack of midnight,
all tummys had rumbled, now full to
the brim. Good night all, a midnight
feast a memory as we all dose of to sleep.

Elegant mistress of the lake how
you dance with beauty. You spread
your wings outwards too show those
why you wear the crown, you feathers
always whiter than the clouds.

You are the queen that others do
follow, pure in colour and aggressive
in sound. If others do not show you
the respect, the queen of the
lake earns. Sentenced to the shore
never to swim in the deep, only shallow
waters as long as the queen is around.

Elegant queen of the lake always
dressed in your white gown. Those who
respect you always beaks lowered,
for you show your wings feathers
stretched out, to show all around
the majesty that is the swan. The lake,
queen in her pure white gown.

Poetess, rare in contemporary usage
yet, not rare in actuality.
Am I a poet? Or a poetess?
The word "poetry" derives from the Latin feminine noun poetria, meaning not "poetry" but "poetess.
So, confusion reigns in my mind as to what I am
but not what I do, or why I do it.
Do I write because I want recognition? Fame? Accolades? No.
Do I write because I need to? Yes.
Words soothe my soul, whether they be dark words or
words forged in the light.
Poetry allows the poet and the reader to visualise
nay experience all forms of love, hurt, pain, madness,
and suffering, the poet, the poem and the reader become as one.

My thoughts like light
they flow and hit the
prism of the mind, where
once there was indiscriminate
thoughts now they collide.

They branch of to be a dense
thought a colour of emotion,
of ideas and moments of thought
turned vocal, no longer a
a thought words spoken from
what they were before.

Random is the incoherent thought,
until they hit the prism of the mind,
which colour will be released. An
emotion, a tear released or a solid
thought, for all must pass the prism
to become a solid thought.

They peer through the cracks to what can be
seen, neighbours once were close but secrets kept
behind closed doors that only those who pass know
what it is.

In the days of old doors open, now
locks decorate each door as untrusted are those
called the neigbours or of those on the street.

Whispers whisk near each door of jealousy, untrusted
though gossip is the enemy. There is always the grumpy
nes that no matter how polite, they wish you never
moved in and will never think of you as the neighbour
there is no community.

Secrets some times heard through a window or
open door, which we turn a blind eye to as its
there problem nothing to do with me. neighbours
not my friends but not my enemy.

I don't even matter anymore
So why can't I walk out that door
Why can't I just give up without failing to do what I set out to do
*I don't matter to myself
So I don't matter no more

My memoires like a juke box, I insert
a thought to play out those memories
stored with in my mind. New ones I
can view no long stored play out in HD.

Then we have those stored at the back,
old memories some long forgotten then
a coin, smell of music last heard inserted
in with some change of thought, and
played out in my mind on an LP slower
than the new ones but still seen quite vividly.

My mind is a juke box of memoires, it plays
old and new, some of the old ones with
out sound but the pictures I see are just
as good of long forgotten. The new ones
stored my jukebox stores my memories
for me to listen to and see, I put in a thought
and I see the memory of old as if it was
only remembered yesterday.