On a day—alack the day!—
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen ‘gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom e’en Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.

empty words
and
empty hearts
showing
just how messed up *
we all are
hateful thoughts
and
scarred skin
showing
just how dark
we all are
haunted pasts
and
so many regrets
showing
just how alone
we all are

but as we sit in a circle
and share our broken souls
we take solace in the fact
that we know
just how broken
*we all are

Bare body's touching, palms together.
Eyes locked on you, your my better.
I beg and I plead for you to let me in.
Don't want stories told just toss them in the bin.
I wanna be in your heart your mind your soul.
Me and you together you make me whole.
But whats this doubt inside my mind?.
Is it the love or the lust thats making me blind?.
Am I only human? can I bleed can I cry?
Thinking of the days after, after you pass me by.
Misery loves company and I hate being alone.
So when you leave i'll think of you till the aches hit my bones.
I'll dream of your body and our palms together.
Only wishing and praying it would last forever.

Why should I cry
He did this to himself

Am not sad
why should I be

It's a beautiful night
the weather is nice
and am enjoying my cigarette

Clovers, big and small,
Soft and rich in luckiness.
Trust would form in us,
Connected like the leaves.

Mud, seemed as smooth as marble,
Splashed over melted chocolate.
Although built brick by brick,
Creativity sped it up.

Tiny lost details used to come from our hands.
Forever fun in bending paper.
Letters flipped over by pen.

Together like the stars and the moon.
Raining sparkles, we were one . . .

Until mountains crashed the charming greens,
Greens filled with pure luck.
They shouted and cried,
Suffocating through day and night.

Nature disobeyed the mud,
Right beneath our feet.
Smoothness was swept away,
By the howling wind.

We got split up into stages.
One lower, one higher.
The mountain became uneven.
One smooth, one spiked.

Great deep cracks began to appear in our circle.
And now it seems that even our stepping stones differ.

No feelings, only doubts.
It has been a long, long time . . .

My dear old friend,
How do you feel about me?

She’s cracking eggs.
“What are those?” she asks, pointing to white and red specks in the bowl.
Once I’d have told her it was shell-
but she’s too old for that now
so-
“Where the eggs started to grow”
“Into chickens?”
“Yes”
“Oh” she says, staring intently at a gooey mess in the palm of her hand.
I finish weighing out the ingredients,
wipe her clean-
“Which colour icing do you want?”
She’s carefully spooning cake mix into bright-striped paper cases.
“Can we make angel cakes instead?”
I go into the kitchen to pre-heat the oven,
steal two minutes silence.
Deep breath.
“No. We'd be cutting up perfect little cupcakes to make the wings”
Choked.
I can’t tell her why
I don’t do Angels in December.

That is what poets do

They romanticize pain
They idealize the torment

There is solace in darkness
Which they craft to enlighten;

Lure with words
The forlorn is adorned
Guilt is charming
Mistakes rewarding

That part that is revolting
The best line in their poems.

That is what poets do

They embellish heartbreak
To cement the heartache

But as soon as they leave their paper
and beautiful words captivated readers

Life can no longer render
The adequate metaphor
Agony is agony;

There is no substitute for it.