My secret thoughts reside
in the backyard of my existence
where darkness cries out in shivers
clear to my bones.  
I wake up to find them
packed neatly on shelves in my mind
and wish I could just crawl away,
be left alone.

They come from my emotions,
dressed in sadness
with no intention of ever  comforting
what they transform.
There are days
when they make a decision
to rearrange the places I stand
until I am left without hope,
forlorn.

My secret thoughts are the lyrics of my being
which bid my heart
to walk on a white canvas
of the purest snow.
Oh the damage
that could be done
if I spoke them aloud,
my true feelings revealed
with these eyes full of woe.

I cannot bend or I'll break
so I hide on these shelves
in my mind,
packed neatly away
from all that challenges
my tree of life,
such as falling leaves.
My secret thoughts control
how my tongue refrains
from speech,
So my true feelings,
you will.....
never see.

Quite often,
a memory of you will to settle lightly on my forehead
whilst I lay in bed.
I brush it away, and then the persistent little fly will inevitably find its way back onto my deadened hide to
lay
   down
       its
     pestilence.  

Though, last night,
I did resort to set these thoughts to flame,
and then I watched your vestige float away
on melancholy clouds of loveless smoke.
Drifted then did I to restless sleep.      
             And there,
the sullen ashes from my fire fell      
amongst impassioned ghosts you'd left behind;
hiding there, in refuge of my mind,
and words held captive with them intertwined.

So then with every settling debris,
from sleeping lips a fickle utterance fell,
"Leave me, darling, come not now, for see;
a vow from you will not once more bode well."

Your voice is ragged from all the singing
Screaming empty prayers at the ceiling
Its a raspy thing thats course and thick
But flows like water over me
Like your hands
Who have done too much hitting
Too much running
Too much bouncing off walls
To ever be innocent

Your voice holds a note of constant misery in it
Like the eyes of bereaved parents
Or the voice of people suffering from chronic back pain
Neck pain
Leg pain

Its the sound of a thousand setting suns
All at once
Different colors
You’ve done too much singing boy
Too much running, partying, working playing
Too much living boy
Too much livin’

Your voice has a hint of irritability in it
Something dark in colour
thick like syrup
sour like lemons
Your voice has a taste of bitterness in it
Man-child boy, farmer kid
A sense of stability
Certainty about it
Its a statement to all of the things you have lost

And hey you're still livin'

The purest diamond,
the cleanest water,
the sweetest sugar, the warmest weather
but I insist on wearing a sweater,
thirsting for something bitter.
Love is all around, yet I’m
sealed in my sadness
Knowledge’s fruit tastes so sweet, so right,
then briskly becomes bitter.
Love is just too large, too clean, too perfect
for me to understand.

Heavy, painful, filthy feels
fashionable in this life…
Despite my comfort in it,
Love looks at me with His kind eyes,
lifts me out and makes me bright.

We always have a reason, an excuse;
it’s easy to be unclean.
But when it makes me sick,
but when it starts to hurt,

Love comes from the light, to which I’ve turned my back,
mends my heart and makes me right.
Love comes from the light, mends my heart and gives me life.

I stopped reading
in between
the lines
What a joke to
look among
life’s hard pressed
seams
When the scent of
sunshine
burst through
the windows of
my open mind
the shutters
shuddered
Coaxing shapely
shadows
and ambitious
ponderings
A new generation
of ripples
taking shape
making waves
in otherwise concrete
complexities
Can’t dwell on
this emotion
in motion
too long before
it fades
like last night’s
star light
Can’t let my
dreams turn
white dwarf
before they get
to glimmer
like the twinkle
in your baby blues
A breeze reawakens
cotton ball fantasies
And the day
has scarcely been
embarked upon