I was always afraid to call myself a poet
Whirling around in little dark rooms
scribbling
Meaningless ink blots
Like a confused typhoon
Scared not to be led by my sisters’ driftings
Towards poetry and song-writing and all the
wonders of
Human creation, and all the while
Scared to be led
We’re always writing and running
And running and writing
And we don’t have time to think and
It’s too much;
The storm was always a shameful habit that
we had to hide
But what if, for just a second in the eye I let
myself
Succumb to the tide
And whirl around in little dark rooms like a
raging wind
To make a mess, to write and cry and to
finally
Call myself a poet

i've always hated my body
the way i look
in the mirror

i can't stand to see myself
without clothes
any body parts exposed

the many bones that stick out
pointy
provoked

When you like someone for what they represent perhaps they’re better left as an idea.

Rust 'n red
All of the Autumn colours in my head
As I pass by trees and endless hedges

Leaves falling down comfort me from the fall
Leaves bright with colour, nature's call
Ochre, yellow and wine

Hidden cottages behind trees
Hidden animals, light deceives
As it beams through the woods

Past the bend
Autumn smiles at me
Lifting my heart, setting me free