In truth, I know naught. Why I am so sad?
It worries me; you say it wearies you.
In lieu of times much simpler much happier;
sandbox wars, creaking swings, afternoon swims
we’ve essays, tutorials and internships,
then sales meetings, social events and the
occasional blind date. Entwined by work
and a distinct loneliness, we clutch at
fragile things, irrational whims; silence
rings a mutual suffering. So bring me
back to bygone days, revisit the ways
you raced me to the pool, we crafted sand-
castles, walls higher than Jack’s bold bean-
stalk, we tried coaxing winds to whistle as we
reached our toes to touch the sky, to dream of
walking the moon, firefighting, saving
animals, or even following Tom
Sawyer into his cave in search of gold.
So, darling, take me back to the past, what
gilded sands of time cannot quite bury,
to reclaim the lost innocence of a
spotless mind, to relive a time when life
was not measured by schedules, to regret
ever saying: “I can’t wait to grow up”

Sleep eludes;
Insomnia.
Hands tick on;
the night sleeps.

Somewhere, someone is waking
Here, I am writing.
Sleep eludes;
yet the night sleeps.

One reason why we fall
in love is because we want someone
to accept the person we are
because we, ourselves, cannot do so.

There is so much I feel but
cannot begin to describe them with words,
maybe shattering,
                                   bleeding and
                                                              loss
can begin to point at my pain.

It is that which defines me,
molded me
into who I am. And ,
so its absence
is accompanied with a disorientation;
of lost identity.

The sky is lightly turquoise;
a colour that if it were an emotion I would describe it as
a light cheerfulness
or the wan smile offered at the end of a long day.

If I could distill the sky into liquid,
and paint with it my thoughts of you;
a light cheeky hue streaked across by a drying brush
cannot obscure the blank emptiness of my canvas beneath.

Let it storm and

let it burn and let it all wash

over like the crashing waves of

turbulent air.



I am nothing yet I am the storm;

I rage as the fire and burn as soot in smoke

inhaled.



I am the storm's eye, the

cold core of burning logs, the

quiet stone resisting the the thunder of waves, the



emptiness of my existence.

The latest contamination.
Under the skin; inflammation.
Stitches on
A bleeding heart.