It's horrifying to think how alone I feel without a best friend.
No chommie, no bff, no partner in crime,
No nachos to my cheese dip, no cream to my chocolate suplime...

There's no-one I can really talk to-
No-one I can trust.
No-one I can tell all my problems to without Judgement or Disgust.

The loneliness is killing me, it's eating me inside out;
But it's fine, I'm independant, I'll have to be strong,
Even though I'm not a lone wolf, I guess that's how it's just gonna' be...
Well until one day, when I finally find another Me.

The moon hangs, like the main decoration on a very eerie christmas tree, gloomily in the night sky.
Its gentle glow illuminates the world which is otherwise consumed in darkness.
The giant orb, plump like a ripe fruit-
yet glazed over with a chilling moss, inches higher and higher through the starry Milkyway.
When the clock strikes twelve it reaches summit and stops - as if basking in its own awe.
Gently, ever gently the music of the moon wafts through its carressing waves of moonshine - which hug the world below...and in the light of the full moon the fairies seem to dance and glow.
Their tunes and merriment are in celebration of the magic of dreams and fantasy in the air;
But suddenly it's not there anymore, and terror strikes the fairyfolk as they are abandoned in pitch black -
The moon has disappeared.
A candiflossed cloud eclipses the globe and steals the magic from the world.
But soon the moon is free from its disguise and the merriment continues.
Late into the night, when the goddess has long since begun her decent, like a silver'd over balloon, deflating - ever so slowly.
The fairies go back to their flowers and trees, go back to sleep and the world begins to lose its magic again...the soft symphony starts to die, in a slow pianissimo.
And just as she disapears, and sinks into the horizon, just as the dawn approaches, the world is engulfed in a deafening silence - in anticipation.
And as if the interval had gone on for hours, the sky bursts out into a carcophany of trumpets, and orchestra;
a crescendo jubilation as Apollo then edges into existence.
He brings a new kind of magic;
The magic of life.
All this I see, all this I hear when I play my sonata.
I feel the softness of the moon.
I feel the magic as I dance across the keys.
I see the world in a different light, through the music notes sketched into my mind.
And then as the night dies, I experience the rebirth of a new day, through the rise and fall of my melody -  
All in the span of just a few minutes and then its gone, all gone -
And I am left starring, alone at the blank pages.

He was on his way to school.
He was only ten.
He was kidnapped and taken away from his home.
He was only ten.
He was beaten, abused, threatened and starved.
He was only ten.
He was handed a gun and taught how to shoot.
He was only ten.
He was forced into a war he never even knew.
He was only ten.
He killed people - women, children; he killed them because he was scared, scared of what would happen do to him if he didn't.
He was only ten.
He was only ten when his pen was replaced with a rifle, only ten.
Only ten when his rights became a fairy tale.
Only ten when survival was his lifeline.
Only ten when his soul died, and all that was left was only ten, ten years of empty nothingness.

Once I knew a place, a place I never truly found significant.
A vast stretch of abandonment and history - long forgotten and left to be consumed by Time himself.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly understood.
Decorated by Mother Nature with an asortment of trees and shrubs and an abundance of flowers it's only scar which betrayed it to the present was a solitary man-made structure, tattoed with the bold letters of "FALCON SECURITY" - surely an untold testimony to this place's past life.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly acknowledged.
Ocassionally it would become the temporary haven of hobbos and hermits alike. Living in mutual homelessness they sort comfort under the trees, in the confines of the hideous building or simply amongst the long, billowing grass of the place. They would build thingie-ma-jigs, what-ja-ma-call-its and thing-a-ma-bobs and sell them to the curt passerbys of their place.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly appreciated.
Surrounded by infastructure, and industry it stood out like a rose amongst the thorns and brought beauty and clarity back into the otherwise monotonous, morbid environment. It stood defiant and strong against the hungry, salivating greed of humanity - yet someday it was bound to succumb to our over-powering ambition for development.
Once I knew a place, a place that no longer exists.
In the blink of an eye that place was destroyed - uprooted and upheaveled.
Every tree, every shrub, every flower ripped out and now gone. No longer a haven but a grave yard where the dead lay scattered like fallen soldiers across the battlefield. Victims against the War of Industrialisation they fell prey to mans' heinous desires.
"Collateral damage" for a "brighter" future they say.
I say, who needs another vehicle retail outlet.
Once I knew a place, and I will never know that place again.

In my mirror I see a clown,
Juggling his fate upon the hope of entertaining his captivated audience.
Performing circus tricks with a painted smile across his animated visage.

In my mirror I see a soldier,
    Dauntless and Dedicated
To dutifully serving his school.
The soldier never tires,
Never slacks,
Never rests,
Never stops - until his duties are done.

In my mirror I see an explorer,
seeking adventure and freedom from the concrete jungle, whose cement vines bind round the sinews of his heart until he trapped
Trying to break away from:
Oppression, and the Syntheticity of suburbia.

In my mirror I see a ghost.
Dead to the world, yet still cursed to wander its lonely alleys,
In search of liberation from social purgatory.

In my mirror I see a learner,
Clean-shaven and well brushed.
His face well scrubbed though the tell-tale pimple betrays him to adolescence.
The student has no substance...
What you see is what you get,
And what you get is well -
Whatever you want.

In my mirror, late at night,
When all have drifted off to sleep,
I see a boy, who finally takes off his many masks,
And reveals his true identity to the trustworthy mirror (whom he has known long enough to keep his secrets)
He is no longer:
The clown,
Or soldier,
Or explorer,
Or ghost or learner,
He is me.

I should have guessed,
The dress up parties...
Doctor doctor...
I'm not as manly as the rest...

I was born to be different,
To stand out amongst the grey
But it wasn't easy to accept,
It isn't easy to be this way

My parents still love me
My friends are still there
The hockey jocks think I'll jump them in the locker rooms...
The populars think I really care...

Every girl wants me to be their BGF and to go shopping everyday.
But honestly I'm still the nerd I was, and that's how I'm gonna stay.
But even then I'll be the pretty boy, the one  that they call gay.

I sit and wait, sit and wait,
And watch the ticking clock move to his slow and constant rhythm.
The rest is a blur, the people around me, the pen in my hand, even the hieroglyphic symbols on the blackboard seem to fade into an incomprehensible nothingness...
All I see, all I hear, is that clock.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
It grows louder and louder until everything is consumed by that mechanical monster.
My ear drums are about to burst, my eyes are watering, I don't want to miss a second.
And as if the church bells are singing my daunting, dreary lesson is complete and as quick as a one-night-stander I collect my things and bolt for the door...
On to brighter horizons
Who needs maths,when you've got English anyways.
I hear we're doing poetry today.

They lurk in all of us, like a black smog clogging up our moral judgement they creep and curl and consume our thoughts and innocent souls until we are corrupted with a false conception of reality and being.
They tingle on ours tongues, spitting and hissing at anything honest and true, like a snake they warp us into a forked viper's venom - poisonous and irrevocable. They bite into our victims mind, spreading only negativity and misery; oozing with droplets encomposing all the evil of the world in a single minute sphere.
They flash through our eyes, through our minds, across our hearts like dark shadows cloaking sincerity and simplicty leaving us to a life of complicated murkiness, having to plan our every move and conive and swindle our way through the maze of what is real and what isn't.
They spin us in a web, Deceit; like a hungry spider awaits it's prey, always catching us in the end...always wrapping us nice and tight until there is no possible escape except to accept the truth-  that you are about to get eaten by a "spider".
One day we all get caught in our own web of lies, whether they be expressed towards others, or just as likely self-inflicted.
And one day we all have to face the truth.

Twirling and swirling and whirling
A flash of red whisps through the crowd of dull and funeral-like decor.
She spins aimlessly, messily through the practised, and utterly strictly ballroom dancers -
Their faces a monotany of emotionless control,
Their poise impeccable,
And only the tell-tale bead of sweat and counting under their breathe betrays the otherwise flawless act.

Again a flash of red, and the floor is filled with life...besides the robotic dancers (and I don't mean they were doing the robot) who were already in the midst of a rumba.
Her closed eyes lead her to and fro through the dancing dead,
Her wandering hands grasp at the music flowing through the air,
Although there is not a learned step to her unprepared jive and jiggle;
her passion and innocence are enough to let any shy observer know who the real master of salsa really was.
Her carelessness was enough to inspire anyone to dance as she did
-and to break the solid, conservative mentality of society
- and to break away from conforming to the norm,
And to be yourself, no matter what anyone really thinks,
Since even though everyone may judge you, there'll always be someone who thinks you bring life to the party.

I'm sorry that I ever loved you,
I'm sorry that I still love you.
I'm so sorry that I think I will never stop loving you...

I'm sorry that I hurt you,
I'm sorry that everytime you see me I hurt you.
I'm sorry that by reading this, I'm probably hurting you.

I'm sorry that I'm sorry...I don't deserve your sympathy, I don't even deserve your understanding...I don't deserve anything except the respect that I had the courage to write this.

Good bye AK47

There's a place in my heart where an apple tree grows.
On warm Sunday afternoons my soul rests beneath it's unwavering shade,
And there amongst the long sweet grass my fears and sorrows all just seem to fade.
How it got there, what it's for, no one really knows.
Strangely still, the ground around it strangely, somehow glows.
But it's bulky bossom and entangled arms keep my worries abade.
And when I reach to pick an apple from it's gentle depths I simply make a trade.
One bite into the golden globe and one bad memory just goes...

It's stands solemn and contright beside the sands of time,
And from there the surreal sea of dreams just stretches on and on,
Merging with the sky as it disappears beyond.

On the branches of my hope there hangs a tickering chime.
And when it sings it's time to go, it's time to say anon.
There's a place in my heart where and apple tree grows of which I'm pretty fond.

Her eyes swelled and a shimmering pearl slid down her sculptured face-
Leaving a path of salty-sorrow and despair across her devastated portrait.

Slowly it swung along the curve of her chin,
Then suddenly, like the last Autumn leaf -  clutching for dear life it fell;
Gracefully to its doom.

During its decent into the abyss, eternity seem to pass by in the flash of a silvery-clear bullet.
Abandonment and Grief was all but reflected in the mirror of her past.
Each second, each revolution describing the calamities of her life, burdoned and bound to her soul.

She had lost everything - but still had one last thing to give;
A humble tear.

As it hit the ground an inaudible shatter echoed throughout her being.
For as the diamond pearl broke, so did her heart.

The day I turned thirteen was the day all innocence in me was lost.
The day I turned thirteen was the day something in me changed;
The day I turned thirteen was the day I became "deranged"...

They point their fingers and look at us with:
Hatred and Malice in their eyes,
Upon us all they suspect foul play-
But what they don't realise is if they mess with one they get the full creme brulee.

We're different, we're aliens on this strange planet Earth.
But that's no justification for:
Neglection, Cruelty and Abuse;
It's no wonder some of us start tying our own noose...

You think that you know us, but you haven't seen it all,
Not the good times, the bad times, the party - or the brawl.

It's a tragedy to think that on the 13th birthday of any young teens life,
He 's marked forever with the
Badge of Shame;
And is then until death the subject of blame.

If I had but an hour of love -
Upon this earth today.
If I had but an hour of love -
To do with what I may.
If I had but an hour of love -
For me alone, just me.
If I had just one hour of love;
I'd give it all to thee.

Let darkness envelope me
In a cloak of mystery.
Let the thunder roar
and the lightning clash -
Let the clouds steal me away,
And the rain erase my tracks.

Let the wind whisk me up
Into the arms of the sky.
Let the howling of the storm quiet down to a sigh.
Let the heavens burst open
And sunlight rejoice...
Let the darkness become light -
Let the world hear my voice!

Let the whispers in the forest break out into song.
Let the world be set right,
Let nothing be wrong.

Let darkness release me form the claws of its grasp.
Let me be free, let me take off my mask.
Let thunder die out, let the lightning disappear.
Let clouds whither away, and the rain no longer shed a tear...

The space in time that stretches between sleeping and waking
Some dream, some don't, some scream, some won't...the point I'm making
Is that in dreams we enter a world which is entirely our own - as my man Dumbledore once put it.
Anything is possible but it's not up to you, actually I don't know who it's up to
But somehow in sleep we all come alive
And live out the narrative in our slumber until dawn does arrive.

Sometimes I wish would never wake up
But then I realise there's no point in wishing for the impossible...

Everytime I see you-
I feel a sharp pang surge through my body,
I feel my heart hit over-drive and I break out in a nervous sweat.
It's a pity you don't see me too.

Everytime I talk to you -
I feel my tongue twisting into an uncomprehensible jabber,
I feel my mind begin to yabber;                 my legs they seem to stagger.
It's a pity your don't talk to me too.

Everytime I think of you -
I feel my whole body melt in awe
I feel warmth straight down to my core and I can't ever stop...
It's a pity you don't think of me too.

I wish I was as invisible as you make me out to be, because then, maybe then I won't see you, I won't talk to you, I won't think of you...and then, only then I'll know for sure -
that you won't think of me too.

Feeling so strongly about someone who won't ever feel the same way...is destroying me, it's killing me...it's pushing me away from all the joys of life, the beauty and kindness...
It's turned me into something ugly, something I'm not.

It's a pity I ever saw you, it's a pity I even talk....it's my heart's own silly fault I guess, to think I even had a chance.
With you, the perfect friend and lover,       I should never have given a second glance.

A picture hangs squank up on the wall.
It's contents is of a stereotypical family...
A mother and father, and three children;
All smiling but one, the eldest son stares boredly and sadly into the camera and doesn't lift a lip to the photographer's insistent "Say Cheese"'s.
Maybe he knew, maybe he was old enough to understand what was to come.
The picture changes -
The mother grows old and grey haired, her smile fades like a candle out of wick.
The baby in her arms grows into a young man, with a sorrowful face and darkness in his eyes.
The girl's hair from it's shimmering lightlight turns black and raven-like...her face screws up into a frown.
The son, no longer a boy, but a man, stronger, and even more defiant than before...he stands, arms-crossed, like a protector over his family.
His face still stares boredly into the lens, but, this time he looks at least like he wants to be there, wants to watch over them.
The father, sitting, grinning;
grows sour and wretched...
his eyes begin to wander to other pictures on the wall, ones that he may find more interesting -
And in an instant he stands up and leaves, not a backward glance, not one...and he never returns.
His seat grows dusty and old and is never filled again.

Pictures are the stuff of memories, whether they be good or bad, they serve as a constant reminder of the past...which helps us handle the future.