I always hoped you were talking about me
And it's so easy to project my own identity onto anything
I saw myself as an emergent phenomenon within your body of work
A character made up of your syntax
You'll write another poem tonight
          And you just started writing it
                   And you're writing it now

Worried, scared and alone.
She closes her bedroom door and breaks into tears.
She feels useless.
She feels worthless.
She feels like she's a waste of space.
She has no friends.
Only enemies.
She screams so loud but no-one can hear her.
She feels as if she's been trapped at the bottom of a well and she's crying out for help, but no-one can hear her.
No-one cares.
The demons scream so loud in her head.
Getting louder and louder.
Her head begins to feel with eerie thoughts.
Dark thoughts.
Disturbing thoughts.
All the pain is bottled inside her, urging to be poured out.
The only way that she can open up and relieve the pain is to paint.
She uses her body as her canvas and begins to paint away without no care at all.
Slowly but surely, the pain begins to ooze away.
The red paint from her brush drips onto the floor, forming a pattern.
Her canvas is soon covered but she still feels unsatisfied.
She goes over some of her previous paintings, creating different shapes and patterns.
She paints until she is satisfied.
She crawls onto her bed and snuggles up with her teddy bear.
Her mum calls from downstairs, asking if she is alright.
She replies with a tearful 'fine', even though deep down inside she knows that she isn't.
This girl wants help.
This girl needs help.

music is my escape.
for my thoughts to feel wanted,
to push through the barrier,
that needs to be broken.
for the rush of words,
to suffocate my mind,
to determine the mood.
happy or sad,
excited or angry,
what's it going to be?
to bump me up,
or break me down,
press the button,
and we'll find out.

One of those days,
where life floats in front of your eyes,
as your head swivels round,
life can't keep up with your disguise,
tell me if I'm wrong,
just do it, and I'll be fine,
but I can't see how anything I haven't created,
could truly be mine.
To enjoy, without contribution,
is this life's perfect crime,

To have and to hold,
to write and be bold,
to fit to a mold,
to be the story told.

one of those days,
where you're a foot off the ground,
three feet from the sky,
and your steps make no sound,
point in some direction,
love without affection,
life without confection,
wind without convection,
Paint me in black and white,
I still can't tell you wrong from right.

To have and to scold,
to make and then fold
to light fires, remain cold
to be the story told

to be the story told

to be the story told.

one of those lifetimes,
you have to look back on,
cannot just pass on,
not without a last song,
that punctual moment,
where the smog is the clarity,
you walk to the church,
but dont need the charity,
you stand at the feet, of a bloodied, cracked deity,
from his mouth hear the words, what is it you see in me?

To have and get rolled,
to give and see it sold,
to live but never grow old
to be the story told

to be the story told

to be the story told.