He was the stars in the sky,
In which I put my faith.
He was the moon,
To which I stare unceasingly.
He was the sun,
That lighted up my days.
He was the trees,
That gave me oxygen to breathe.

He is the voice,
That makes me cry at night.
He is the fist,
That makes flinch every time.
He is the hand,
That pulls the trigger,
And takes my life.

A lone, brooding shadow in blighted May,
He lifts his noble head against the day.

About which unkempt hair tumbles in curls.
(The large unblinking eyes glisten as pearls.)

In pastures bold and free, untouched by hands—
Here the dark horse, immovable, stands.

1.

The reverberations of the dark blood
Steam and flood
The hollowed eyes;
And once mouthed, issue sighs
Which split the wood & shatter rock.

2.

The tremulous wringing of ageing hands
Shift hot sands
In ugly time;
And once marked, strike the chime
Which holds the hour & breaks the clock.

I grew up weird.
Both fast, and painfully slow.
I understood everything and nothing.
Socially, I started confident and grew awkwardly
first in the sun, then bending away from such bright attentions. Academically I started out running, always ahead,
always the best, the brightest. Straight As and
mismatched clothes, socially lost
yet somehow showing
'great potential'.

Now I've learned a lot.
All blacks and grays, I've finally
mastered at least a portion of my shortcomings
but its too late. Because I've grown up and its shifted again
analytically I see it, can emulate it, but it isn't
familiar or comfortable, it took me
years to catch up and I'm
still behind.

I've grown up weird.

If you look into
My dark brown eyes
There's nothing hidden
You'll see no lies
But will you see the truth?

If we look at those
We think we know
Is their deepest truth
Ever openly on show
And would we recognise it?

There is a way that
I learned in hard places
Just look deeply
Behind their faces
With practice you'll see all

                                       By Phil Roberts

Before she goes to sleep at night
She puts a noose around her neck
To give herself a reason to stop
Tossing and turning and thinking
About the last time she
Was safe in her own skin.

Instead of tucking herself in
Under blanket and quilt
She tucks a knife into her chest
To remind herself of her guilt
And her shame and the pain
She faces at the dawn
Of each new day.

She threw her pillow in the trash
Because comfort wasn't something
She thought belonged in her life.
Now she rests her head
On a loaded Sig .40
And finds solace in the touch
Of cold steel against her cheek.

She always said she couldn't sleep
And now *she can't stop.