I like train journeys and the sights that you see.
I like the movement and the twisting and turning.
It reminds me of myself, my path.
A constant cycle of emotions as if I'm programmed to follow a certain pathway of emotions.
I like the options when on a train though.
I like the fact I know I can get off anywhere.
Only if I could run away and start again but my past soon drags me and my dreams back.
Relentlessly I am forced back into my lifeless, dreamless reality where money means happiness and feelings mean little.

My nothingness follows me as I stroll down the streets.
Uninterrupted and ignored by all.
The worthless looks I get being judged.
Not worth a glance I bare on my own journey.
No planned destination or route but just wherever I am taken.
Fate dictates and decides my life.
So far it's only brought me ideas but far from a certainty.
The only certainty is death.
So I carry on my path in hope that one day I will be known and wanted.
Until then I leave where I'm from in my wake.

Depression isn't sadness.
Many think the two correlate but sadness is a mood where as depression is as much physical as mental.
Sadness can change easily as the wind can change direction.
Depression is being trapped in the wind, no obvious path to escape.
Depression is an island of thoughts and feelings where nothing makes sense.
Depression is being under a relentless cloud which rains only upon you, it's a barrier between you and the outside world.
It cannot be fixed easily, a broken bone is obvious and physical where as a broken brain is not so much.
The most important part of the body can be damaged and hindered so easily.
2 choices.
The hard one or the easy one.
Which path you take defines you.

Don't touch, feel.
Don't hope, trust.
Don't frown, smile.
Don't plan, do.
Don't think, wonder.
Don't dream, achieve.

Stones bulk large:

depleted plovers
scrape their smaller partners
into minute curves and ramps.

This junction
when the bird's weight
******* and ties the shale in patterns
is the sea lords' making.

Stones sit on
like rigid eyes:
their stare worn silly
by the sea's corrosive pull,
their grating interplay --
uncanny masochism,

while the human heel
depletes the simple curve of eggs.

Autumn drops from the spit of summer.

It is brown, well-mealed,
perhaps a little burnt;
its plush resplendencies are gone,
its fruits are split.

That spring, that summer
grimace in a scattering of husks, a wizened apple,
is unbearable;

and at the core:
pipped deaths, abbreviations, futures going hard.

I begin with some well-wrought clichés:
a face full of flowers
by a window,
a humming hearth where
the in-folding flames
hold a thousand roses by trestles of soot
while outside the leaves of the autumn trees,
by the iron-root and crocus-foot,
not yet undone of their crimson-chrome,
bypass all platitudinous theories
and reiterate a passionate
reasonless reason for making known
the incredible odour
of sunken hours
when snow had its own
impeccable bleach of flowers
and loaves had no need of wheat.

Drawn under, again and again
I have blundered upon innumerable halved hearths,
suddenly crestfallen,
downcast.

How to express this strange impress of words?
Or, culled in the inbetween moments,
little impossibilities budding
perfectly strangely, becoming
possibilities which crowd a little closer,
seeking air, mewing, speaking
and robusing the hidden bud-bid for notice?
Notice me here in one green piece
of innocent horse-verse, nosing dry day.
By day an effort, by night white strikes of words,
struggling through to metaphoric sights,
suddenly, *****, span,
***** and fan this little stage
of mine, here, now lines
and lines of verse con-
spicuously present, myrrhing, purring,
pudding catty-watty to horsey hey-**-**.

I thought I wasn't nostalgic about this
Until I saw the empty apartment.
The spaces where my posters used to be,
The small kitchen I shared.

Tiptoeing in at 3 am so as to not wake up the roommate,
Sleeping through the same,
Laughing through the night with friends,
Avoiding conflict while making more memories

All these memories are there in my head,
Just waiting to be relived,
In a new place, in a new home
Some things have changed, but definitely not all.

Relationships don’t have to be romantic for them to be beautiful.
It’s those little things about you that they remember because they’ve actually paid attention.
A mention of painful shoes and they know which one it is.
A mention of a specific friend and they remember me talking about them.
A complaint about a sad day and them knowing how to make me feel better.

These things seem so little, but they are so much.
They are the culmination of something you started a while back,
The realization that they like you as much as you like them,
Things don’t have to be romantic for them to be perfect,
They just need to, well, be.