We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

The way you rapped me around your little finger
Twisted and twisted till I could untie myself no more.
Rocking and rolling my poor heart, letting it linger
Leaving it left so sore.
Yet this passion clutched me, hung from my every limb.
I would not leave you. As I knew you would not me.
The country moves of yours swaying, humming hymns
Every move so elegant, so classical, so free.
I could not grasp the way you did it,
Moved me from my deep burrowed Blues.
My hero in every form, like a candle lit
In a darkened, dusky room.
You will be my song, my tune, my being.
For you and I will breathe as one breathing.

Colour my eyes the brightest colour there is,
Paint my lips any colour you want,
Write poetry in place of my skin.
But don’t let anyone else read me.

Bound by society,
Trying to free her wings
Balancing truth with conformities
Leaving her hung like a child on a swing.

Torn by expectations,
Each piece a clue to her mind
Ragged in clothes not hers, but theirs
Bearing with them, of her, no sign.

Leaving it, she'd attempted,
'Integrate', they said
'Lose yourself, to join us'
They could've said instead.