I'm just the **** up
that you didn't expect
and oh, hell, i'd love to escape.
Conforming will eat my head off
injections of rebellion.
Smell the dead roses
and numb yourself
with immeasurable time.
Dance dance till your knees give in,
drink drink drink
til you're overflowing
with the devils brew...
scream obscenities at the lights
hold your breath
...
spin spin spin
...
spin spin spin
...
spin spin spin
...
spin spin spin
...
spin spin spin
...
collapse
...
now breathe.

George Foreman



                               Never




Let me down



                                        With his fat-draining grill.

I'd give you everything,
but I can't tear this heart from my chest
and put it in a shoebox
tied with pretty ribbons and bows,
the cardboard would dampen
with tears and warm blood,
it would collapse and tear.

I would give you my heart,
But I can't give you second hand goods.

I was born too late, take me to the 80's.

Repulsion always looked so good on you
when you'd find out about things I'd done,
Yeah, yeah I'm a teenage *****
But that ***** had *** on your floor!
And at school when you watch me,
It's like you're waiting to be shocked.
Shake your head at me, go on, do it.
You need to know, you're no ******* angel.
It's okay, It's okay. you can go smoke ****
and then judge me,
Cause hypocrites your second language, baby.

Every time something new and exciting happens,
I'd write a letter to mumma,
ever since I was six.
New Ma and Pa gave me a pen and paper
one day, and an envelope with a unfamiliar adress,
they said, "Write 'til your hearts content, sweetheart."
My first letter had terrible spelling,
with backwards letters,
But it had meaning,
it read, "Where are you mumma?"

I wrote a letter for each week,
and New Ma would let me put it in the box,
down by the train station,
I'd run home as fast as I could
and Pa told me that if I sit by the letterbox
too much, a patch of grass next to it would die,
so I sat at the door step waiting instead.

As I grew up,
The amount of letters I'd write would
slowly decline, I'd write more in depth
than one sentence, but only once a month.
At the age of 17, I'd write only 2 letters a year,
Christmas and what they told me was her birthday.

I'm 29 now, I still write her a letter
whenever I have time,
and somedays, when I feel lost,
or empty inside,
I'll still sit by the dusty letterbox
and wait.

*Dear Mumma,
I'm 29 today, are you proud?

How are you?
Are you fine?
Are you fascinated by stars?
I watch them tonight,
As I write to you.

Mumma, I have some sad news,
New Pa had been terribly ill for weeks,
Months maybe, but it all seemed too quick.
He passed away last week, Mum.
Pa was a beautiful man,
I wish you met him, Mum,
You would have liked him,
Every one did.

At the end of Pa's funeral,
New Ma handed me a shoe box
covered in tear drops
and her shaky hands were so pale.
But, Mum, do you know what was inside?
The box held every single one of my letters
That I had sent you,
All were stamped with "RETURN TO SENDER".

On sunny days,
I still wait for you at parks, Mum.

From your forgotten daughter,
Florence.
I love you.

Your eyelashes hold the tears
of a thousand men and womens sorrows,
you speak to the dead
and yet, and yet
you scream happiness.
you bite your tongue in the arch
of every conversation
afraid of twisting words through your teeth,
It's sunny outside baby,
wipe the dust off the window
with your green sweater,
green was never your colour
leave your house
breathe in freedom
and exhale the voices of the dead,
let them go home, baby,
stop holding on
Kiss me without the taste of dust
on your lips,
break the frozen grass with your bare feet,
Exhale the dead, baby.