i saw you outside
on my roof tonight
with your messy hair
and cigarette glowing
between your fingertips and
you wouldn’t leave but
you wouldn’t come in
and i kept staring as you
blew puffs of smoke
with your back against my
bedroom window and
i wanted to get up and crawl
outside and sit behind
you and draw pictures on
your back of all the things
i didn’t know how to say but
my blankets felt like lead
so i whispered to my pillow how
much i love you and then
the sun began to rise
and you looked back at me
with ashes beneath your
eyes and i told my pillow
i wish you’d stay
but you didn’t you
never do

i don’t know how someone as small as me
with bones that break at the sight of heat lightning
and heart strings that thread apart at the sound of his voice
could make anyone feel like the sun shines brighter
through kaleidoscope eyes—
you’re okay if it brings out the freckles on your face,
and you feel good, you feel alive
you say i showed you how to love in a new way,
that i taught you to be so much more okay with your tummy,
“it’s been very freeing and life is a lot better, thank you,”
but i feel like i can’t say you’re welcome
because i am a messy cliché of imperfect scraps and hypocrisy
loosely sewn together with
“you are strong you are strong you are strong,”
but i feel so weak i feel so weak i feel so weak
and i am not steady hands, they shake like
wet dogs after kiddy pool baths,
i am flower seeds that forgot how to bloom,
trapped below the surface of a garden that feels like quicksand
and i’m sorry but you don’t see all the mistakes i make,
all the words i’ve preached that look back at me
and laugh when they see
what i feel, what i think, who i am behind closed doors,
i’m sorry.
you keep hanging medals around my neck, and
they’re so heavy, and i don’t know
what to say besides i love you
when you speak words of adoration,
but please do not praise me, i am not good.

I think the scent of bug spray on my palms will now forever remind me of you and the late night (early morning) we spent sitting in your car, drawing awfully unskillful portraits on the back of each other’s hands in 
dim light and 3 a.m. stillness. (I wonder if you could tell that doodling on your skin was just an excuse to touch you.) I wanted so badly to let my fingers find yours 
as we laid back in our seats 
and peeked out the rolled down 
windows at the infinite stars scattered above us in the 
early August night sky. I told you I wouldn’t kiss you, 
because I know my heart and 
how relentlessly it would 
replay how your lips felt on mine, and how it would ache knowing
 you couldn’t be mine,
 so I let you kiss my cheek instead,
 and the half a moment that I felt 
your unshaven face brush mine in the middle of the street at five in the morning feels like a fake memory. When you looked at me, I wanted to hide, because I was too afraid to read what words might’ve been written in your eyes, but I felt so content listening to the 
deep tone of your voice 
mix with the obnoxiously loud crickets singing in the trees 
surrounding us. I could’ve sat there with you till the stars disappeared and the sun took their place, but you walked me back home, and you left in the dark, and now I’m sitting in my bed thinking about how the hours between 2 and 5 a.m. have never felt so full.

I'm following my yellow brick road
To where, well nobody knows
The more I say it though, the more
the idea on me grows and grows.

Yep, I'm stepping out on it step by step
with shoes on that you would not believe
If I told you they were green and sparkled
Then it is a web I set out to weave.

A lie, a delibate lie from me, no the shoes are plain
Just normal walking shoes, just run of the mill.
But you would think I would step out in style
Launch the rocket that fits the bill.

But I cannot be bothered, to tell the truth
This yellow brick road seems normal to me.
But Elton John would not have wanted that, of no
Showmanship is what is required, I hear the plea.

So okay then, my glottering shoes are on,
catching rainbows of their own.
Wait just one little minute, something I have forgotten
Must take a selfie on my mobile phone.

Well, wouldn't want the wicked witch of the east to come
and grab me whilst on my way.
I have got proof now from the mibile photo
No matter what one silly witch would say.

Elton John would be proud of me, I would hope
In my shiny shoes, and my way to nowhere
But it is what we are, what we do, I hear the cries
Or does anyone actually give a care!

This is written for Mike Hauser, I know he likes Elton John
To me he is the greatest ever singer/songwriter.  
Mike I hope you like your poem and have enjoyed reading it.

To,
All the flowers whose petals I have plucked,
If I only knew He never really truly loved,
To all the tyres I burned,
If I only knew they wouldn't change their minds ,
To all the trees I had cut down,
If I only knew my book wasn't to be published.

Therefore;
To all the mothers that cried because of me,
If I only held patience rather; when their Child bullied me,
To all my loved ones I say sorry,
If you only knew I could never change truly,
I'm sincerely sorry.

No,
To all the teachers I spoke behind,
No, You were never that; of an ingenious mind,
To all those friends I lost, because of my losing temper,
If I only knew, you weren't as forgiving as my mother.

If only,
All the loss my body had to bear,
And the Childish trinkets my body had to fear,
How heedlessly and needlessly wasted, were my tears,
I knew,
I'm deeply sorry.

To all my guides who thought I aimed at nothing but the best,
If they only knew how afraid I was of my everyday life test,
I'm but sorry.