It impossible to tell the difference now,
Whether this ache was from your absence,
Or from your presence.

this physical life re-created by men
of deception,
fueling false perceptions
and misconceptions
isn't everything..
isnt anything...

Monsters all,
Are we not?
Some of which have lost the plot.

Confine them all,
Bolt and lock.
And pray that they will be forgot.

Corner them,
Bring in the S.W.A.T.
Hush the rest; disperse the shock.

Poke around,
Electroshock.
And hope that they will join the flock.

Social chains,
Block out a lot.
Our moral boats have been rocked.

I am a gypsy wanderer.
The only home
I have ever known
Is my body.
And I destroy it.
Those like me
Can never have a home.
So I fill my lungs
With cigarette smoke,
My skin with scars
And my blood with *****.

the intricate stitching of your brainwaves brings me to my knees.

the delicate sound of the words that pour from your mouth make my head spin.

the way you consume time and still seem to move so fast makes my chest crumble.

It always ends in ****, because the walls can't speak the honesty you need. Somehow you find the gratifying affection in watching other people make uncultured love in unkept sheets. We call this cycle, good enough. As our hollow hearts beat harder. Mass production of media, easily prescribed as a fault of technology. Mass media production is a man made reduction of ourselves behind glass emotions. Sickening potions, as you hit delete history. From your phones memory, but not yours kid.

Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first smoke coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields

Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn

                                By Phil Roberts