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I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
Dear Dad
I know you have physical disabilities,
but you are the centre of my heart,
the love of my life,
so thankful to be your son.

I  am never ashamed of you,
because you are my perfect dad;
your heart is never disabled,
your love has had no divisions,
your mind is pure,
your words calm a raging foe,
and your smiles are infectious,

I will always be your son,
I love you Dad.
The harsh winds caressed her cheeks
As she stood there high up
With her heart beating like thunder
And chaos rising through her soul,
And though the streets shimmered-
Like the stars higher up above her,
Her eyes were shadowed, still in darkness
Of her own soul, and misery
And she stood there,
Anxiously awaiting her deliverance,
With no fear taunting her nerves.
And a voice whispered in her ear,
Quiet like the wind, serene, yet biting,
'Just one more step'
And opening her arms wide,
Holding on to her tears, she let go,
And she fell, fell, fell,
For hours through beautiful memories.
And like ocean waves, she now felt the wind
On her scarred skin, resisting her,
And now, for the first time,
She felt weightless, like a feather,
And as her cold face gave away a grin,
The hard concrete earth kissed her tender skin,
And she was gone, like the wind...
Answers were the scarce currency
But generous open-palms once held
Me, became deft with fierce urgency
Those bruises were not yours to withheld.
Between each sunrise
And each sunset,
A day will demise
And the world will forget

The dreams of the dreamers
Who struck ne'er a sail,
Who stowed away genius
For fear they might fail --

Raise up a fine banner,
Set course on a whim,
Be aloof in your manner
And never give in,

Shout 'Ahoy!' to each sunrise
And 'Hoorah!' at sunset,
It's the dream 'never dies
That the world can't forget.
I love the moth
Who comes by my window, he sleeps with me at night

Rest's under my sweet pillow.

I leave the window open
So he can fly on in.
  

I hope he comes back soon
He's become a good dear friend.
It is becoming harder to find people who refuse to be cowed by fear, and made to hate.

Our borders are a circus sideshow; we sit in increasingly uncomfortable pews and watch the sad, desperate clowns beg for some of our popcorn, and the chance to sit down and rest, for just a little while. We don’t want the popcorn; we want hotdogs and french fries but it all costs too much these days, and that’s their fault too.

Build more fences, send more dogs.

Children scream as their ears bleed but they aren’t ours, they aren’t anywhere near ours. They aren’t anything to do with us and it isn’t our fault or our problem. A young boy washes in the sea closer to home. The salt stings and his body starves and he’s the ultimate unwanted. He wants to return to a home that will hurt him even more, and to a family returned to the earth. Blame the French. Blame the Greeks. Blame the Muslims and the Syrians, the swarming, stinking hordes.

So come to the circus, and bring your kids, 3000 crying clowns, all walking the tightrope without a net. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. The horses have bolted and the dancing girls have all been sliced in two. The ringmaster never drops his whip. He sits in the centre and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.
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