When a group of humans converge,
convene,
in one place and all stand still
an amazing energy leaps
from person to person.
Standing solidly in a cavern that consumes them,
us,
we come together.
Unwittingly.
Unknowingly.
Subconsciously.
Next time you see a group of us in space look,
really look.
Notice how people’s feet move in the same way,
at the same time,
a soft shoe shuffle to right themselves.
The fates have crossed their life-lines for the merest fraction of a moment.
Notice how we all sway, like trees in the wind.
Or long grass,
we are fragile even if we pretend we aren’t;
we are breakable.
Our soft flesh and liquid blood leaves us almost as vulnerable as our minds do.
What about when two strangers eyes meet?
They turn away, embarrassed,
like they’ve seen too much.
Even if all they saw was a protein dye.
A group of humans in a room.
A band of men.
A tribe.
A pride.
Are we so human after all?

Lie to them my darling,
They don't need to know,
Your pain is from mere days ago.

Lie to them my darling,
They don't really care,
They only want to know what size
clothes you wear.

Lie to them my darling,
They want you to show,
Every crack in your pathetic pavement,
They want you to-
          -go-
to them my darling,
They are your friends,
You allies.
Let them wrap you up in simmering lies,
And let them:
Think of you.
Looking up to your distant skies.
Regretting their selfish suicides
With remorseful
and tear filled
eyes.

When she was five none of the books she read included an underlying love story, why would one want them at that tender age? Magical rainbow fish fed her desires and the real love story was when her grandma held hands with her granddad whilst they were walking along the Seine. She whispered to her mum in hushed undertones: 'I think they're in love!'
By the age of ten she got tingles every time she sensed a ripple romance in the sub-plot, she would picture the characters together and wish, wish for them. She could feel her happiness bubbling over when they got together and found that happily ever after, never caring about what came after.
They probably got divorced.
At fourteen she honestly believed that love could solve all- and spent endless hours planning her first kiss, her first boyfriend, her first love. She watched everyone whisper, doe-eyed, through white, ****** lips, about The Taboo. And that scared her.
And then at sixteen she fell in love. With blades and drinks and smokes. After that, well, she didn't live much longer.

I love the way I wear Timberlands and Docs like I'm an original, and I think that they make me seem edgy.
I love the way I hum tunelessly on the bus and mouth lyrics instead of singing them because I can't sing.
I love how free I feel when it's cold, and how I run down the centre of my road when it's dark and spin around with my arms out like angel wings.
I love the way I notice my own little habits and wish that someone would notice them too, then give me a cup tea and let me snuggle whilst wearing a big jumper.
I love the way I think that love can fix people, even though I know it breaks us.
I love the way I refuse to talk about feelings, and yet they are always there, churning on the tip of my ******* molten chaos.
I love the way I hate myself 80% of the time and love myself for the other 20%
And I love the way I find loopholes and beauty and wish for everyone else because I want people to be happy more than I want to be.
I love how I'm not perfect or skinny or pretty and I love how I'll never be loved, but I love so, so much how, even though I've had so many impediments, I've kept going, and I love how, still, through all this; I can learn to love myself.

I'm not pretend, I swear to god.
Whom I've only recently strarted to believe in, and only because I desire something.
And I am pretend in my Imagination, that much is true.
But my perception is scarred and blurred anyway, and what is real and who am I and who will I be? Do I really care?
I guess you know. Or you think you know, which is knowing to me.
But all this time I've know what I think is the secret: you are what others think because the you in your head is so violently different to the you displayed and for sale that only others can know you.
You are like a subjective and ambiguous bit of poetry, only you know the hidden meanings and deliberate devices, so you are biased. You expect people to see these tiny nooks like they are filled with neon, shouting, hollering: 'I Am Here!'
But they don't. Thy find other, obvious things, that you overlooked as being too obvious.  
Then someone comes along and analyses you so candidly, picking up all the tiny bacterium you never noticed- so that you are more than willing to explain the complex juxtaposition of your existence, because they tried to understand. And admitted that they missed the grass in the field of daisies, they never assumed they knew you, they never announced it to the world with badly suppressed glee; that they had solved you like a childish puzzle in three seconds flat.
And people want to be loved, but I think they want to be understood. And we are all a little mixed up.