To only know how to ask,
A question that he can't help but,
Chase after with such light and dark in his eyes,
That won't stay still for long enough to write down.

To only know how to forget,
The questions that he ignores,
And clatters past without balance nor reason,
For the joy of careless haste.

To only know how to speak,
The words self-censored not self-centred,
To shout and scream and giggle at himself,
For no f*ing reason.

To be free-formed and free from self,
J'aimerais être libre!

Yes...
I wrote in French...
Why not?

A new world,
A freer place closer to the Earth,
A place built around nature not on it,
And the ways of life that here have been forgotten.

A world of choice,
Where boundaries are wide and blurred,
Where my decision is mine alone - unquestioned,
And there's enough space to be myself.

Could we go somewhere?
Would it be running from life?
Should that be the way?

This path we take, we follow,
Our feet between the potholes,
Half-filled with water,
Half-filled with mud.

The loose stones bite my soles,
And shift my weight away,
Half-over my ankle,
Half caught in time.

We're laughing, talking of things,
That shouldn't make us smile,
Half-crude, too much detail,
Half-rude, but meant in jest.

Sometimes, we break away,
From the pointless, from the fun,
Half-serious serious topics,
Half-broken broken hearts.

A silver back, with gold above,
It glints in foreign sun,
Purest but still, blackened outside,
Until scratched away to show the shine,
It smokes from inside and burns at touch,
Until the crackling stops,
And it becomes nothing more than,
A lump of metal.

As if from a dream,
Or maybe some time-soaked memory,
The white fabric hugged itself around me,
And opened my heart and lips to happiness,
As my eyes saw the girl in the mirror,
The same one from my dream,
And the curtain behind me becomes the cover of trees,
The seat beneath me a forest floor,
The light above me the stars of night,
And my breaths become a song.

You've been tying me up,
With the ribbon in your hair,
And the bobby pins going straight through my heart.

I've been trying to copy your style,
But my curls go everywhere,
And it wouldn't wouldn't suit the colour of my eyes.

You've been telling me,
Don't worry about what they see,
Just wear it how you want,
But lately,
They've been telling me,
There's someone else they want me to be,
And it's not who I am now.

I've been basing my look off you,
Since I fell in love with your smile,
And the colour of my makeup is your fault.

But I know that sometime,
I'm going have to work out my own style,
And what I want the world to make of me.

Now, I've become obsessed,
With the way that you dress,
And how you walk,
And the way you move when you're talking to me.

How, how can you say,
That this is not the way?
When like this I smile,
And like this I feel I could finally be free.

This place speaks in ink,
In pixel-perfect scrawls,
Drafts are in the past,
Replaced by a backspace
Key in a keyboard that plays songs
In words not sound.

Inspiration has no value,
Unless it makes you rich,
Who writes for fun?
No marks, no grades, for wasting away
Hours on crafting power,
Into words.

The language we've learnt,
Is disposable, recyclable,
Play-the-game cheatable,
Not truth but jumping through hopes,
No reward for moving forward,
Creativity by method.

I'm scared in broad daylight,
A glance at me earns a label:
'Threat'

I can't afford to be seen through,
For my label to be clear and
Open for attack.

I know that being me is not
As safe as living a lie,
But there's no choice.

They don't understand,
That I am a target from the moment
I step outside.

I have to hide,
But I can't.

The cloak is three minutes fast,
Counting the age of these pages,
Ahead of time.

The dust settles three minutes late,
Fingerprints and broken spines delayed,
In broken time.

These words live three minute lives,
Conceived and captured with only a short pause,
To take the time.

The clock is three minutes fast,
Looking back at the new becoming classic,
So little time.

A light, three tiles, another light,
Not white but tinted: blue, pink, green,
The ceiling's closer, muffling my thoughts,
As it deadens the voices around.

The window's open a crack,
A slim strip of sky let in,
But the air is dense, filled with heat,
And dry confused conversations.

The wall is plain, just white,
But washed in the yellow reflection of day,
The only colour here needs a good eye,
Otherwise, all is grey.

I do not have an empty mind,
It's just filled with pointless things:

Beauty, music, the smell of the air,
The shades of blossom and grass,
Romantic feelings, laughter and smiles,
The sound the birds make in spring,
Flowers and words to describe them,
Hope, ambition, inspiration,
The way sunlight glints on leaves,
How I feel, how I wish I felt,
What I want to do with my life,
Who I am.

Pointless.

The light makes my eyes drop,
The heat makes me weak,
My ears close to outside,
And fill with songs of sleep.

My hand becomes my pillow,
My chair becomes my bed,
My eyelids, now, my curtains,
As stars light up my head.

In an instant,
The shades turn to pixels,
The beauty pulled and twisted into,
Strings of numbers.

A perfect imprint,
A reflection of time,
In a misty mirror,
A sun-lit filter.

Sand brushed frames,
A memory distorted,
By over-exposure, poor lighting and blur.

A laugh captured between breaths,
The light in those eyes,
A reflection of a lens.

A moment I'd forgotten,
But lives on in fading ink
Losing its shine with time.

Is it too late?
Did time force my hand too far?
As much as I push back,
I can't get off this path,
And my fate remains.

There's a face smiling,
One I seem to know but can't place.
She's running in the summer fields,
Laughing in her new dress.

Her mother's watching,
She's smiling too,
And her father joins in.

And together they're dancing,
Through the rare bright days,
And she is happy.

But I feel like I miss her,
And I know she's gone,
As she runs out of sight.

Now another face,
The same but older,
None of the joy in her eyes,
Leaning against an oak.

She's singing to herself,
And I know the song,
And her voice is my own.

Determined,
But far too weak to keep eyes,
Fixed on what they need,
To see to keep,
Working,
And instead,
My body lets down my mind,
And shuts
Down.

"Stop making me giggle,"
He can't stay serious,
We can't stay serious,
Never a moment longer than a breath,
Wasted with the necessity,
Of words not painted with gold
Smiles.

Some people need kindness
The storms and burn of life have beat them down
Every turn they take is filled with broken hearts
And minds and lives
Every day demands a sacrifice of blood and tears
But their body is empty.

Some people want kindness
That they've grown accustomed to being given
Without charge or return they want help
And false smiles and sympathy
But they can't lift a finger or open their mouth or wallet
To help the empty.

Some people deserve kindness
Through every whirlwind of pain they kept both eyes on others
Though they fell they would refuse attention
And bandages and pain relief
Until all those around received theirs first
While they empty out their heart on others
And let their own soul suffer alone.

So I didn't write this, it was something my friend wrote. I don't want to take any credit from them, but it struck a chord with me and I wanted more people to read it. He gave me permission to 'do something with it', so here I am, doing something with it.*

I don't want to go to school
I just want to sit
With a book, a game or a movie
And watch the world go by
Watch the people they consider normal
Try and guess their lives
Sit in the church yard
In the rain
And guess how people died
I just want to sit
Quietly
And watch the world go by

Floating off into summer dreams,
That mean more than just days,
And not just an escape.

Not a moment to smile,
Or bask in the haze,
That I made in my head.

Instead a release, not joy,
But hot salt trickles down my cheek,
And I cry without restraint.

And I allow myself to feel,
To be sad, for once, and weak,
To let emotion out and, in turn,
Allow happiness in.

Once something starts moving,
It's hard to bring it to rest again -
One word can become a future,
Deflecting the course of truth.

Further and further we fly,
Off into the unknown,
Beyond knowledge and fear
Into some new light.

Or hint of a light,
That we wish we could see
clearly enough to know
We were going the right way.

Mornings are not so,
Rain-soaked and painted grey,
Now, on occasion, we are blessed,
With light and warmth,
To wake us from our slumber,
More readily.

The rays glint on the windows across the road,
And dazzle my eyes,
So I can barely see the infinite blue,
That so rarely shows itself,
But instead hides behind tears and mist.

If the sun would only shine a month earlier,
Or a fraction brighter,
Wouldn't it be wonderful?
Perhaps.
But would it bring such joy,
If we knew its light would embrace us again,
And again, and again, and again?

As the hours slip past,
And I lose my chance at sleep,
Dark becomes my home.

Though she pounces,
Her touch is soft,
And her snarl holds no malice.

In her eyes the purest innocence,
That could never ****,
Or know pain or sadness.

Her tiny frame will not grow,
Into a predator,
But a companion who's subtle fur,
Will be a comfort and soak up,
Any tears her master may cry.

Reaching out,
Chasing, grabbing,
Clawing at something so real,
But it fades in your grasp,
And becomes no more,
Than ripples in the past

The doors to each side,
A killer in each room,
Not a knife-wielding ******,
But a face I try to forget,
A voice I'll never forget,
The feeling of sick, sick regret,
This hallway never ends,
Behind every door,
There he is,
There he stands,
Smiling,
Waiting,
Knowing,
He knew me too well,
I'm running,
But now the doors,
Are frames for his perfect picture,
His design,
And I'm posing,
He moves my limbs,
Manipulates me,
Into his shape,
And now I'm falling,
And he's stood over me,
Smiling,
Impatient,
Sick,
sick,
sick,
no,
no,
no more.
NO!
NO MORE!
LET ME OUT!
I'm banging on the window,
But his face is my reflection,
Oh God!
NO MORE!
PLEASE!
I can't forget,
I tried to forget,
But it's just this sick, sick regret.

I am no great poet,
These words are no more
than an outpouring of thoughts,
In random orders,
Without much more thought
than that which they were.

I don't have any formula,
No structure or style to stick to,
I just repeat when it feels right
Repeat when it feels right
to remind you of what I said before
In some other thought.

I don't live a different life,
That is somehow more poetic,
Or beautiful or inspired.
I don't have a muse at the moment,
Nor do I have a sanctuary,
Any escape or silence
In which to think.

All I do is amble through,
The lines until I find
Some moment
Strong enough
Or desperate enough
Or vulnerable enough
To create some kind of
Fragile beauty.

Feeling the sun on my face
As I bathe by my window
As I bask in the first burst of spring.
Though beyond those glass panes,
A biting chill dances in the breeze.
I watch and drift in the heat
My eyes do not wish
To gaze on at the light
I have missed for the months in the dark.
All I want is to feel
The sun on my face
That reminds me I'm still alive.

Words are a comfort,
To the hiding and lost.

Words are a change,
To the oppressed and afraid.

Words are a lesson,
To the searching and blind.

Words are a key,
To the prisoners and trapped.

Words are a pastime,
To the silenced and still.

Words are a future,
To the broken and dead.

All I want is to cry out my mind,
When all my tears have dried up,
When I have no pain left to give,
That's when my veins scream for more,
More broken skin,
To match my heart and soul's torment,
Takes more than just water in my eyes -
I want to cry out my mind.

Light streams in,
As we sing joyful songs,
And make them boring,
At half-speed,
But we don't care,
Because today,
Happiness, hope and love,
Are all that's on our minds,
And it feels...
Amazing.

Sat in the dark
Where someone grabs my hand,
As I ask and plea for truth.

As I pray for some sign,
Some hint that I'm going the right way,
A warmth in my palm.

As I shake and hide,
Someone holds me tight and takes me away,
From some imagined eyes.

As I'm lead from fear,
I unzip my coat and let it fall,
And step outside.

As I walk through the dark,
I see a single star ahead,
And walk towards it,
Away,
Escape,
Free,
With a hand in mine.

Perhaps once I thought sadness,
Was an option,
No,
The option.
And that smiling was just,
An afterthought,
Or,
Replaceable.
But I know now that the real choice,
Is in my hands,
And,
My heart.

I just have to choose right.

Music cannot help itself,
nor be silenced by dark,
Long after nightfall,
Still those light tones,
Will float away into some forgotten corner,
Of some familiar room.

Writing is more than a hobby,
Just as breathing is not a pastime,
Nor the pulse of my heart a game.

Were my words to leave by my mouth,
Not through my pen,
No more than a hint of me would remain.

Perhaps it is hard to understand,
If your fingers do not feel the same urge,
The same need to form pictures,
In whatever way they can.

Dreaming,
In sun-kissed haze
of calmer days,
Back when grey skies meant
no more than a brighter time ahead.

Sleeping,
At the first burning sky
of the third sunset of spring,
Waiting for seasons to change
and making them whisper by more quickly.

Thinking,
On the things that never
Mattered to anyone else,
While all else hurry past
hoping for another normal day,
I stay still,
Waiting for summer.

For the first time in so long
The notes spelled a smile as they flew
Through my fingers to the keys
And the chords I hardly knew.

For the last time in as long as I can
The blade's glint is locked away
And left untouched as the empty nights
Skulk and slip away.

And another time for longer
I will see and feel like spring
And the warmth and life and subtle breeze
Will lift my heart within.

Half-hearing the story
of a face I didn't know,
But the eyes I've never seen before
still remind me of my own.

The nightmare that she's living -
I don't focus but still see -
Reminds me of the shadows that pass
beneath my doorway.

The faces in her window match
The faces glimpsed in mine
But I know not who she is
Nor who I am

There is more truth around my neck
than there is in my whole body.

And scratched into the clasp
are the marks of honesty.

And clinging to the velvet
is a whisper of who I could be.

But the lump in my throat,
the way my shoulders stretch out
a little too far away from my flat chest
and my hips don't quite fit
the way I want to walk.

Your eyes see body first,
Truth second.

Numbers flying,
Filling my head,
When digits aren't the answer,
But words instead,
When randomness is ordered,
And certainty is dead,
When structure is creative,
And poems left unsaid,
Because numbers are not lifeless,
They're just waiting to be read.

A tapping, almost regular.
Close enough to even space between each,
tick tick tick
of some broken clock.

Each beat pulls my mind,
searching for a rhythm to match
the pulse of my unsteady soul.

tick tick tick... tick-tick
...tick tick tick
Confusing, yet constant,
and still my heart tries to keep time.

tick-tick-tick...tick...tick

Until time is nothing,
Minutes and seconds are meaningless
when that last tick sounds.

Another deadline ends
in me dead along the line,
hanging from the line,
that kept me alive.

There's no community spirit
when community needs spirits
to keep people in good spirit,
rather than smiles.

Why am I future planning
when my whole future is planning
for the next day to start planning
my life?

Those nights,
they replay on the cassette tape
that runs through my plastic heart.

And as I listen I am pulling
until the memories
are ripped and torn apart.

And what is left gets put together
in the wrong order
and gets tangled around my veins.

Until not a single second means anything,
but sadness, tears
and confusion still remain.

And now just a single sound
is looped again
and again in darker shades.

So I'll listen to my old screams
and wait for the new ones (on a compact disc) to form.

Head tight, closing in,
And losing focus,
Hearing muffled,
Underwater,
And struggling to breathe,
And sinking in air,
Losing balance,
Red and green flashes,
Cough,
Retch,
Almost gone but,
Not quite.

Those gloves I wear aren't to keep me warm,
They're so I don't have to look at these hands,
And I don't take them off lightly.

This necklace I wear isn't for show,
It's a part of who I am,
On or off has a meaning.

That scarf I wear isn't to keep off the chill,
It's to hide the unchangeable from view,
So until I talk you wouldn't know.

I wear things for a reason, not for style.