Time soothes me,
it rounds me like her face.

it's sound is the beat,
that synchronises with mine.

the hands hold me,
so I stand,
the tick of time.

If they don't care about your worries,
They don't care about you.

I'm not pretty,
but oh ****,
when I'm with you,
you make me feel it.

thank you
For being the one
shard of light,
in my cracked grey sky,
for pushing the world around
and pumping my heart
to beat
beat,


beat,
when this world crumbled
and everyone else
depleet.
you
seemed to find me,
hold me
pulled me to my feet

The death of you
Is unpicking
All of the stitches
I've sewn up

And the wounds
Are being rubbed
In coarse salt.
Punishing me
For ever forgetting about them.

Spending five days
And four nights
With the love of my life
Is not enough
When I want to spend eternity
In his arms

A poem,
it's more than
line punches
between words,

a catalyst for emotion,
it longs for your practice,
devotion.


It's the twist in your tongue,
that you want to untie.

It's a log of your thoughts,
that need no rhythm
no rhyme.

As nouns don't always match,
and verbs don't always belong.

but this poem is yours,
it's your voice,
your story,
ideas,
your song.