I want to be the sun,
dancing on grass so green
and dappled through leaves.
The dreams you've never dreamed to dream
whilst sitting by rivers and roaming through trees.
The thoughts you've never thought to think
whilst drawing on foggy windows or walking up stairs.

I want to be the wind,
dancing on waves so blue
and whistling through masts of boats.
The songs you've never sang just to sing
whilst running through darkness of forests and leaves.
The dances you've never dared to dance
whilst squeezing through crowds and moving to music.

I want to be the rain,
dancing on fields so golden
and spattering down on cobbled roads.
The sentences you've never thought to write
whilst staring through windows and rifling through papers.
The words you've never thought to say
whilst running through storms and perching under branches.

I want to be the thunder,
bursting through skies so red
and rumbling across blackened horizons.
The plans you've never planned to plan
whilst crouching in doorways and rubbing your hands.
The walks you've never taken or walked
whilst breathing out fog and sheltering cigarettes.

I want to be the hail,
rolling down hills so steep
and freezing the water that falls from the air.
The hands you've never braved to hold
whilst wrapped up in towels and dripping in warmth.
The hearts you've never dared to love
whilst sitting by fires and colouring cheeks.

There's a woman's umbrella
and a noose.
Within a sea of trees that
stand like shadows.
Haunting the souls that
venture inside,
yet innocent enough
to not be blamed.

A mirror left opened
on the mulch of leaves.
It hasn't been broken
unlike whose ever it was.
Reflecting the souls that
venture inside,
yet innocent enough
to not be blamed.

Tape is wrapped across
all the branches.
“If you follow, you are bound
to find something at the end.”
Leading the way for the souls that
venture inside,
yet innocent enough
to not be blamed.

Suicide forest;
a place for troubled faces.
A car left abandoned,
a tent flapping in the breeze.
The final home of the souls that
venture inside,
yet what is guilty enough
to be faced with the blame?

"It didn't mean anything"
I said the first time.
Rubbing the hickeys that battered my skin
(I refused to call them 'love bites')

"It didn't mean anything"
The second time round.
But the fumble this time was heated.
(I refused to **** in a shower block)

"It didn't mean anything"
I said once again
When you raised your eyebrows and sighed.
(You refused to accept my claim)

But the bite on my lip
I can feel it still now
And the trace of your hands can burn
"It didn't mean anything."

Fins slicing through waters slick
at dusk in echoing caves.
The indigo moon hanging alone,
reflections on the dipping waves.

Lazy waters lifting light,
eyes glinting at constellations
in a night that rolls, too quick, to dawn
with a foggy lack of concentration.

Alone and warm in an early morning.
Melancholy rose at sight
of this empty boat, left alone and moored
and gone, the last lick of light.

I am happy
I am also sad
It is possible to be both
I believe they call it "harmony"
Pessimists prefer "melancholy"
But poets aren't always protentious
I am simply smiling
I am sometimes crying
It is possible to feel things
Without writing poetry
I believe they call it "art"
Although I prefer a silence
From whoever they are