To the moon, my sweet eclipse of gale.
Tread soundly, have reason spilled upon you.
As sweet white skin drilled with creators upon your face seem new though games of time play tricks upon you.
Have no tricks cloud your new expression while your face is shown.
Shedding reflected light upon the pieces of my past, connected with a spear impaled through the heart of time... still lost along the way.
Have I known the way to reach you, spilling blood on my coffins door. Liquid stained through generations, a starlight yet to show true mornings canvases, past you, reflecting your light of whitest, through red, blue or harvest, thee suspends me above sadness.
Past the frail illusions of day.

Reminder:
It's better to be losing her in books
than losing her to someone else.

a.g

Sugar daddies? No.
I'll make my own **** sugar –
and plenty of it.

I'm tired
No, not that kind of tired
Where it can simply cured
By sleep

I'm tired
Of all the things
That put me through
And through

I'm tired
Of all the times
Where I've almost
Shed a tear

I'm tired
Of all the friends
That used me
Like my feelings never existed

I'm tired
Of all the life
That makes me suffers
Days and nights

You are the one and only fluorescent thought,
still alive at the night of my lost soul,
the life giving breath I borrowed through
your mouth, when I chocked and went down,
while swimming in the turbulent rapids of life.

Red glowing ember you are, that warms,
my soul in the winter of  unimaginable freeze
my daily dose of sun's purple beams
at the moments of dawn after a long night,

your moist, warm, soft feminine flesh,
raise and fall in such precision, with every beat,
and when I hold my breath, I hear,
both of our names spoken in the lingo of goose bumps,

You are the joy of discovery after
wandering through an arid desert
an oasis full of, green orchards,
you are the peaches and the apple
I want to steal, just to keep with me,
smelling and petting,
                                    never even would
think of peeling, relishing the taste,
I 'd never ever attempt,
to bite it little by little,  and consuming

The policeman strides the concrete,
some poisoned daffodil
in his stage boots of tread and leather
and fear of authority.

Troll-like he emerges over the sound
of the head-dressed busker,
her simple song, her trio of chords
singing under the shops,

who despise her art.

And I, against the tide of footfalls
and ‘aww’s’ at the latest range
of lipsticks and daily distractions,
I stop to watch as her will falls limp.

Her squeezebox is strangled of sound,
and the music dies at the order
of an order, the noise pollution
of the High Street’s mating call.

Chair folded, she evacuates through
the traffic fumes, ‘cross the road,
and with hope, with fingers crossed
and eyes wet, I hope this is a retreat

and not a surrender.

Once more he strides the concrete,
his fluorescent jaundice coat
a warning, a reminder, and I see
his eyes mouth the words:

‘Your license please,’ he says to her,
‘your paper proof of your right to play.
What profit plan do you have in place
and who approved your name?’

‘You can’t call yourself a busker’, he says,
‘much less an artist or work of art,
which talent show do you hope to enter,
to validate your part?’

‘Your part in this wholesome land,’ he says,
‘how you do your bit, your profits large,
because our economy is going asunder,
and so we have no time for art.’

‘So it’s with no due regret,’ he says,
‘that I’ll send you on your way.
And if with you goes the death of music,
well that’s just progress made.’

And so I walked away from this scene of
deflowered and purpled hope,
my stomach wrought with injustice
and no nicotine in tow.

And it is to this table I am sat,
with just one vocation upon my mind;
to reclaim her song, now sung in silence,
and steel her memory in time.

And it is to this table I am sat,
with everything on my mind,
to tell of what I’ve seen,
to indulge another rhyme:

Sing to me your sorrow,
sing unto the skies,
play to me your pleasantries
and please purge me of my lies.

Pay us with your sorry tune,
pay us with your life,
all your forsaken childhood dreams,
your faded hopes and strife.

And please,

bathe me in this sunlight,
and bathe me in time,
scour me with city streets
and allow me what is mine.