Summer solstice in the park
our icon twanged guitar
the smell of favoured fast food
hashish from near and far

there you were beside me
the lover I once knew
utopian as love's partner
each colour with its hue

the memory of you lingers
that warm and sultry day
beamed that face of sunshine
and body ****** sway

ah youth in love the wonder
so blind and yet so true
inexperienced emotions
feelings some may rue

love is quite quixotic
except for faithful few
over ere you know it
and we must start anew

A school bag against a wall,
paint peeling at the edges, grass growing
upwards, clinging to life
between the cracks of the pavement.

A hand on the school bag
clenched around the handle,
fingers pressed together,
curled, and the nails press into the heel of the palm.
They leave dark little crescents.

A boy;
he curls tighter against the wall,
a shadow throws itself over the bruise on his chin.

The boy pulls his school bag towards him,
rests his bruise on it. His fingers grasp
at the worn weave of it.
Eyes close, wrinkle shut.
Obscure all other senses,
so hearing is the sharpest.

Not yet, not yet. No footsteps yet.

Breath shudders, suppressed
from flaring nostrils.
Barely escapes from his lungs,
that are squished against all his other organs,
in that winding space of a box
compressing all of his organs.

No footsteps, no footsteps yet.

Breathe, breathe.

Footsteps.

Laughter, slinking around the corner,
ahead of the approaching group.
It plunges into the taught space of his ears.
Echoes there.
Thumps against his skull.
Footsteps.

A school bag, pressed tight against a boy,
who wraps his person around it,
begs it to be a shield.

A hand, curling into a fist.
Footsteps.

A boy,
and three others.
Three grin,
one does not.
He can't see their teeth, his eyes are stuck tight.

"Look at this pathetic ****."
A slap of sole on pavement.
A boy stepping forward,
body harsh.

A flinch.

A laugh.

"******* hell, I can't even be bothered."

Footsteps.

A high, quiet sob.

Fingers on a schoolbag, loosen.

Craters cradle the eastern horizon.
Asteroids are smashed, passing backwards and
comets rocket passed like a rubber band
whizzing across my face. Our sun brightens
the new gruesome sky that our world lies in.
The smoldering rocks much like contraband,
are invasive, not controlled where they land.
We now know that we were not enlightened.

In darkness, our souls wither away one
by one at the sight of the destruction.
Suddenly, a strange theme occurred among
us. Trust without rules. Now, we can all run
a world not petty, void of corruption.
As one, we will become heroes unsung.

The thought of thinking about thoughts you havent had before,
  Is like a smooth melody of the band Doors,
  Change comes not a penny more,
  Seeing over the rising,
  Shore to shore,
  Love it like you showed no love before,
  Need a trip to be quick but after you want the vision of seeing more.

One: I am born, brown eyed and screaming
Two: I am four years old, people compliment my sisters exotic green eyes. Are mine ugly?
Three: I am seven, and I am thinner than her. I win.
Four: I am eleven and I lie about my weight. I wish I was skinny.
Five: I am thirteen, refusing to eat
Six: I am fourteen and empty. I cut every inch of my body
Seven: I am fifteen and miserable. I contemplate suicide
Eight: I am sixteen and medicated. Meghan killed herself. I am bones. Am I alive?
Nine**: I am seventeen and I ache, but I am healing

Once,
I dreamt we ran out of lucky numbers to clasp onto
and fortune cookies to snap.
So we crossed fingers,
crossed each other's heartstrings and stars,
banned bad spirits with cheap spirits,
with middle names, middle fingers,
with the memories we learnt to love,
whilst blessing ourselves with our defects,
and laboriously watching out for cracks in sidewalks.

We called it a miracle every time
we didn't fall through.

You were my winning racehorse,
forever the prized gamble,
the writer's ache for pressed typewriter keys
and bullet black ink on paper,
the published return for insomnia incited poetry.

You were luck and
I still feel like a broken mirror.

I loved the way your secrets felt at night,
how I felt poetry between our skin,
like silk
as you peeled back my fragile incapabilities,
alive within my bed sheets
and always asked for a million
forevers.

this poem is written in past tense
and now I know how different
quiet and silent
feel.