There's  a world outside my little square window
that overlooks fields and woodlands and sunsets
and that world overlooks a bustling avenue with
shutters on windows and constant, humming traffic.
There's a world outside my little square window
that keeps wakes me with the same sun every morning
and the same old singing birds,
and that world rouses me with a different kind of music;
of people and chatter and busking and life.
There's a world outside my little square window,
a world I would never have been tired of exploring,
and that world is named Paris.

Eyes grace the celestial mechanics that
scatter our skies with glittering objects
alive with humming ancient materials.
Down here Man can't see deeply enough
into the skies so brimming with beauty
that he forgets to marvel at the above.
Although the ground is rich with earth
so delightful and thriving with life so pure,
so simple it is to focus solely on the crust.
What objects and footprints grace our ground
and with what items they hold in their hands
is not so important when looking from clouds.
Precious and selfish, pathetic and cruel can't
do justice for the description of Man
and tracing the stars should help one think.
Think with the mind and not with the eyes,
there is far too much that hasn't been seen
yet by curious, clever, keen minds.

Back we go, again and again
into that void of
hangovers, bitter-sweet,
and bruised arms and legs.
Melancholic, involuntary smiles
wash away in the shower
with sleep dusted eyes that
barely caught a doze.
Headaches that make walls
quake and rooms spin
whilst cooking greasy breakfasts
and shaking heads.
But back we go again,
how many times now?
Hoping to forget;
dive into that beautiful void.

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?

A plethora of metallic chords
echo bluntly through a
hollow skull. The moonlight
burns many pallid, young
faces as they bathe in pools
of dull light.

Watching, waiting, wanting.
My breathing is shallow and
powerlessly, up here, I sit.
Like a hopeful hawk, I perch.
The shame a hawk feels when
likened to a vulture.

But I won't pick at your bones,
rolling as the Earth explodes
like fireworks. I have no
desire for dead meat, destroyed
by shells and their melancholic
tune or heart strings plucked
like a harp.

Two of you scuttle beneath me,
through the dead and the dirt
like cockroaches, burying into  
the ground.
"So long my sorry friends" says
the hawk as he swoops and
dives to catch his prey.

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 see no clouds
by my eyes,
no air be stills these
powder blue skies.
Smoke curls through
the sun scattered trees,
a whisper of bliss,
a touch of green.
A monumental grandness
disparages naivety
of a summer breeze.

Around a glittered lake I stroll,
its water flecked with spots of peach.
Specks of light that whisper warm,
the dreams of homes that live there, each.

The glowing hue I follow round,
but stopped by something soft.
I lift my head, my face, my eyes
to the figure before me, lost.

A halo of watery moon light,
hangs about its head.
"I am but a lonely shadow",
is what the stranger said.

Filled with disbelief I feel,
my heart contract with fright.
The dust path billows beneath leather boots,
twirling away from the sight.

A darkened arm curls around my own
and the bitter wind be stills.
"Fear not" the shadow whispers
like the wind amongst the hills.

Enclosed by warmth a sudden,
a fluttering appears.
Transported to the woods above,
just this befriended darkness near.

Hours dance about the night
as sheltered secrets I am told.
Warmth engrosses all around
whilst the mellow evening grows but old.

Sunlight creeps into the sky
and new love begins to fade.
"Find me not by morning,
only drifting behind the shade."

Draped am I, across his chest and
with heavy hands, him firmly pressed
to me, in dark rooms; split with light.
Legs are tightened and glazed eyes, bright.
To feel his lips as they swallow my tongue,
above heaving ******* of two so young,
would be transcendent if he were mine
and eloping as lovers in heat, sublime.

A shadowed denizen writhing, elated,
under a favourable mouth falling, sedated.
Grappling, unfastened,  vivacious and soft
as against the wall pushed, and held aloft
was I as a body, so virtuous - yet carnal
and was held again with a hunger, infernal.
Again were we guilty in a frenzy so vicious
of a tantalizing ecstasy of resentment so delicious.

Cold eyes hang above an overcast
bed and my arms indent
this tainted spread.
One more time, pressing down
and I have no will but
the want to have this second still.

And so I stay, but should I leave?
Rather than be pressed
and have my mind sieve
the minutes through
a darkened room, alone and
cold and unsure but you

You make me stay, how? Who knows?
As long as we're drifting
across this stormy ocean - tossed about,
I'm close to broken. But bruised and beaten
and battered blue? The appeal's there.
I'll stay forever, provided you swear.

And so I lay, contemplating my friends
and sanity, but O, what is
my concious thought? All I could say
could still be sought when all
is done and the scene is closed,
I shiver and sigh and do not know.

"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."

I think we are all just
wannabe artists
trying to figure out
how everyone else  
managed to get famous

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.

Sometimes the sky was a funny kind of colour
Sometimes she didn't know quite how to feel
Sometimes the lilting glow of moonlight
                      Answered all her questions.
Sometimes she needs to feel how she felt
Sometimes the rain pattered on the window
Sometimes she was submerged in a tidal wave of thought
                       And her questions were answered.

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

Sitting on a motionless boat, bobbing, futile. Smoking until we are reduced  
into galactic clouds of ash, being propelled only by future and talking about poetry and poets and literature and the classics until we fall under the impression that we might just know what we're talking about.  
Willing the days to fast forward unto something more exciting when we might not even know, just yet, what exciting means. Talking about
all of the cities to which we are going to travel and smoke more cigarettes
and drink red wine when, really, we can't stomach the taste of the stuff.
Breathing shallow, through the hours, as we dream ahead of adventures and being grown up. Watching the sky fade from azure to rose to indigo as we hope with each rising and falling heartbeat that reality won't burst our bubbles and squeeze tears from our saline drenched eyes.