Swipe left, swipe right
Swipe left again.
The familiar heart shape of a match pings a new life into the shimmering screen.

As I press letters into my keypad,
Forming words that my friends and I have constructed
As if the words on the buzzing screen
Were a fine art only we had mastered.

And that was how our story began
Swipes, typing, buzz.
Laughter and scrutiny from my friends and I to your reply.
Adds, follows, likes...

Then the little read icon
Had been left idle and blue for days,
No double text, or vaguely targeted picture could tempt him.

Then back again,
Swipe left, swipe right...
Followed by more typing and blue ticks.

Never have I seen your face -
when I look at you
I only catch glimpses of your soul

and when my fingers brush off your skin
It's your soul, that I feel.

"Now, this is a view
That I wish I could see forever"*  you sighed, whilst peering at the landscape
That tumbled in front of us in a way that only nature could!
"I agree," I smiled, glancing at only you, taking your hand and silently wishing that you will be my forever-view.

Drown out the voices
And pieces of you will have to go

Don't listen to the things
You tell yourself so late into the night -

How are you to know which voice of yours
Is truly right?

I'm in the game now
and there's only one way out
there's victory or your downfall
and they're a hungry crowd.

They scream for your survival
and throw rose petals at your feet
until the buzzing leaves
and you realise they are screams of hate.

There's no backing down
I'm in the game to survive,
the odds aren't in my favour
and few want me to survive.

The others have trained for this
for their whole exhausting life
I'm the secret
the only thing between them and feat.

I'd tremble in the corner
were I given the time.
Help! They're gonna eat me alive

I can feel my heart beating -
the only way of knowing if I'll survive this fight -

Theres wanting love and wanting you -
Making two into one.

Two souls halved
Becoming whole.

I wanted you, wanted it so bad
I'd have lay down and given my life.

I'll never trust, or even love
You didn't break me -

I'll want again, this is true
There'll never again be wanting you.

you used the word we today
when referring to you and me.
it was said in passing
with little thought behind it.

yet the way you used it,
created an 'us',
so to tackle my problem,

that gave me chance to hope,
to want to intertwine my fingers
with your fingers,
and after that, just see what happens.

No one's youer than you,
Or me-er than me

So lets be the us-iest us,
That we can be.

After that, just let it be.

I can hear the clock ticking
In the corner of this mundane room.
It smells half of hospital,
Half of rotting flowers and you.
A sad pre emtative truth.

That horrible ticking noise
Grows louder!
Demanding to be heard,
While silently smirking that it can be.
You lay hear dying
And it is a silly old clock we listen to.
Its ticking quickens
As your heart slows.

They will want me to speak
After you go.
I should ask you now what it is you would have me say,
But you seem more engrossed in the packet of Marlboro reds, perhaps your last ever.

Still everyone deserves kind words
At their funeral,
Not that I have any to say
And you made sure there would be nobody else left on your behalf who would speak.
I am afraid the liquor cannot thank you
For the years you drained on it.

Perhaps I could tell them of the time
When I was still young enough to have ***** finger nails and grazed knees
And I fell - tumbling to the ground with such force tears welled in my eyes and soon I was screaming out your name.

You came to my rescue, like the Knight I thought you were.
You patched me up good and took me for food.
I could tell them how this evening was my favourite with you, and how I am sorry that I lost this to liquore.

As I my mind returns to the place at hand,
And I consider telling you this
That horrible ticking ceases to exist,
Taking you with it.

I dreamt of you last night,
like I have done on so many other nights.
This dream was different,
it didn't wake me
in the chilling dark of night
through my own blood curdled screams
leaving pangs of aching agony.

When the smoke cleared
and I broke through
the milky darkness
there stood this little girl,
and I knew that she was you.

I couldn't move,
this dream it felt so real
I was shock-frozen,
at the sight of you -
a mini me,
but with brown eyes instead of blue.

And before I got the chance to grab you,
to tuck you into my arms
and keep you there forever,
you instinctively knew
delicately touching the water
and as it began to ripple
so I floated away -
away from the smokey ghost world
and back to sitting by your grave.

Which is worse?

to feel everything so deeply
every sideways glance
and cold shoulder
feeling like a dagger
grating against my chest

for every glass
that falls and smashes
shattering to dust-like pieces
to feel like the shattering
of my pathetic life

to keep on feeling
that tightness in my chest
knowing you are barely breathing,
and there's no real reason.

to feel the pinpricks on my skin
which feel more like
lacerations to your sole,
to the very core of your being -

Or take the pills that the doctor keeps prescribing
and feel nothing,
not even the death inside?

Our first date -
a bottle of cheap whiskey
and awkward glances.

The taste of it sweet upon my lips,
before I got to taste you.

Through drunken ramblings
and childlike giddiness
we learnt so much.

You were more intelligent than me,
I like that -
to be challenged.


I'm challenging enough,
I don't need the added intelligence.

And soon one cheap bottle of whiskey
became two.

From the time
Which I understood my thoughts,
I knew I was destined to be
Apart.

Never was I meant to be –
One of them.
Chilling in someone else’s plan,
With a white picket fence.

I was going to be something,
Small or great –
Just anything that wasn’t
That.

Now I sit here
Still young and ambitious,
Yet ever more ridiculous.
The only difference between
Me and them,
Is I’m doing it without a man.

will you sing to me when i am dead
when i can no longer feel raindrops
falling upon my head.

will you play me the cello
as you sit beside my grave,
dying shrubbery, and my life encased.

a closed casket to entrap,
encase, enclose my foolish soul
my ramblings gone stale and old -

will you sing to me when i am dead
like you used to,
when i were a child
ever young and foolish too -

When I write,
Putting that pen to paper -
Even if to merely create ink smudges
Where the thoughts die young -

I can feel each piece of me,
The ones I know are there,
And the ones I've buried so deep down
Even I forgot-
Swirl around my soul,
And gather in that pen -

So the words and patters and nothingness on that page
Are my everything,
My words, well, they're me.

" If you live alone,
         You'll die alone, darling "

Spilled ink
is better than spilled blood.

From that ink
craft your soul-deep thoughts
into a work of art.

And so boredom
consumed
his dark and dulling world.

Food was nothing more than sawdust,
drink merely poisoned air,
music the screaming shrill of pain
and life, a darkness beyond repair.

your body is a corpse
                           every part of it is changeable
your face is just a face
                           the lines etched into it are nothing more
than faded memories
                           the marks of rotting dreams

do not let the limitations of your flesh
                            define your legacy
the ink-spills spiraled on your skin
                            do not limit your potentials
but inspire you as an artist
                            the colour-pop in fading black
is singing the songs of your soul
                             seeping through the barriers
decorating the canvas of your corpse

                              those ink-spots are just as much you
as the eyes that beseech me
                               your body is a corpse love
screaming for you to decorate it
                                *decorate me

There is yours
and there is mine
there is no us
like in storybooks

I am young
and you are restless
I am reckless
and you are wise

To the outside
we might be combined
but there is yours
and there is mine

Our stalemate love
is a sour tragedy
bitter on our lips
and tongues

Because there is yours
and there is mine
and what we have
we can't combine

You are the restless soul
that has been aged
and I am the youth
that is your pastime

Stalemate love
for stalemate lives -

How can something so fair
be so -