A million miles, a million nights.
We crossed the desert, thrills and frights.
You took my arm, I longed for it. I took your arm, you felt for it.
It felt so searing, long and dearing;
yet every night it was I fearing,
I had never felt that way before.
You tore my heart,
You gave me more.
Across the sand our story printed,
the dents we made forever minted.
The memories you gave will stay.

For it was you that made me this way.

As the warmth of the sun submerged my skin,
purging the sentiments of a weightless dream,
it became apparent that it was Helios in control of my heart.
If only the wings were taken away before I flew,
Then maybe I would have survived
as opposed to being hailed a fool.
Love gave me wings and allowed me to fly,
I glided through the heavens and I soared through the skies.
My second collapse was the sun in my eyes.
To this day I am still falling, but I was brave enough to fly that close.
I would plummet into the ocean again if I had to.
I never understood why Icarus' waxen wings did mount above his reach,
but along with age and the realms of love, I assume he simply wasn't good enough.

Smoky air, fedora and billboards,
testosterone-fuelled dreams.
the purest of all male forms in its finest
yet darkest days.
Who run the world? Men.
The sweat pouring off of the masculine brow
that controls what we are prohibited.
The lights of Morris Minors flooding the
streets.
The watchful eye that sits upon the ashes.
They’re in charge. Them, and only them.
A red right-hand to those anti-them.
They will tear you apart
if you decide against pledging allegiance.
Or you’ll end up in the sand.

Ten to Eleven.
Eleven to Twelve.
Twelve to just One.
He closes his eyes and hopes for a masterpiece
yet only he understands the pain of the pen.
Those late nights under the light of the lamp fire
nocturnal writing like a literary vampire
The cramp in his hand is definitely a price worth paying.
he writes what he dreamingly sees but is seemingly free
from the outside world.
But what he does write will remain on a page
longer than he will remain on this planet.
A perpetual shell with remnants
That will forever be his companion.
The page is our best friend.

Look at me.
Just look at me the way you look at those other girls.
They’re everywhere, little miss ‘perfect’s
who have *******, big bottoms, blonde hair
what’s wrong with me?
Just because I don’t look like that.

Talk to me.
Just talk to me the way you talk to those other girls.
You know the ones I mean,
the ones that initiate conversation through the eyelids they bat,
through their smell that lingers as they walk past your table,
you just can’t help but want to talk to them.
What’s wrong with me?
Just because I don’t smell like that.

Be with me.
Just be with me the way you want to be with those other girls.
The way that you slide into your covers of a night
and ponder what it would be like to be in theirs.
I can’t help being who I am.
What’s wrong with me?
Just because I can’t be like that.

Well maybe I should stop watching you.
Well maybe I should stop imagining you.
Well maybe I should stop,
         maybe I should stop being with you.

It’s difficult to convey one’s thoughts
on a plain white canvas
when your head is as blank as the page.
The scribble is a scribble and
my words become dribble
but as long as you get your point across, right?
Please tick the box.
If the answer is yes, explain why.
Well what if I don’t want to?
What if I’d rather keep that one to myself,
after all, my grandad did fight for my free speech.
All I want is to be me yet
the ridicule evades me.
I need not sprout profanity without meaning,
even if I’m entitled to that free speech.
So stop asking these questions,
and bother somebody else.
There are enough people in this place let alone on the planet
That maybe one will listen to what you have to say.
The power of words.
Close the ******* door on the way out.