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Apr 2018 · 361
The divinity of Desire
They say lots of things about love,
They make it seem it is the ultimate desire,
Wanton and wilder than the known universe,
An cataclysmic explosion of two personalities,
Born separate, reborn together,
And yet...
I have loved worse men,
And lost better women than I deserve,
And now my convex chest is as vast and devastated as abbey ruins,
still here,
After hundreds of years.

Maybe I will live on in my memories,
For there are graveyards in my bones,
Eulogies imprinted on my arteries,
Long lost love letters scarred on my very marrow
For those that I drowned,
And those I saved.
My faith is a moorland hillside war memorial,
An obelisk to reach the very gods,
Your love is but a squall,
My hope is a trickle, a stream, a reservoir, in the deepest steepest canyon and Valley,
Your love is but a rain drop,
My clarity is at the bottom of a whiskey bottle,
Your love is but an ice cube.

Do not ask me brazenly to die for you,
When ******* me is your finest hour,
And I am but a pleasure boat ride for your masculinity to take a trip in,
We are not divine here;
My expectations are as low as your esteem:
A water you paddle in, a toe dipped perhaps,
but you wouldn't swim through, dare to at least,
And yet,
I am a rushing beautiful rainbow of a waterfall on a sunburn induced day,
The haze in the corner of your eye,
When you begin to question,
"is this too good to be true?".
We are all but fallacies.

Dip your fingers and cross yourself,
As you wish for clemency.
But still,
Be still,
And know,
I am,
Am I?
Or am I just divine on your tongue?
Apr 2018 · 664
Broken Sunglasses
I don't find limiting myself with a title,
There are no boxes left for me to fit in,
Or burst out of....
I find it's excitingly horrifying to be,
This lost.
There's a similar difference between identity and persona,
I am what I am, am I?
What am I?
Do you think the men I have only half loved,
But stroked their meek egos of,
And the woman I have cowered at,
As they screamed my name,
Know what I am,
Is not who I am?
There is a solace to be found in being wanted;
Are you the one they fall to on a late night,
When they are alone and drunk?
What about when their beds are cold?
When they cannot see you because, they are blinded,
By their quest to find themselves more, and you,
And you,
My dear,
Oh my sweet you,
Who is no one in this world,
Are a literally stepping stone in under their feet,
As you wish to be a moon in their stars.
What they don't tell you,
About surviving trauma when your brain is developing,
Is that your world turns to opposites,
Chaos is home
Drugs are home
Hate is home
Fear, is home;
Here secreted beneath my pallid skin,
I try to find them all a home,
Knowing I'll never find mine.
If self care and therapy was literal exercise,
I could bench press all of you, and more,
And save you all;
My motivation to not be broken is stronger than my will to die,
And they'll never know that,
As they try to break me,
Over and over, and over,
And over again.
Everyone's broken.
No sorry, everyone has cracked edges,
Mishandled a few times
Not broken, slightly damaged.
We, the ones filled with gilded light, and songbirds,
We know the ******* difference between depression,
And eternal internal sadness,
From not understanding love, to
From seeking solace in the extreme,
To running away from arms that seek to confine.
Where for art ******* thou?

We are not here for your pleasure.
But we are.
How could we be, but anything else?

I tired.
I tried.
Driving too fast.
Telling them.
Saving them.
Being everything.

This isn't a shopping list.
It's. Not a bucket list.
It's what we do to survive,
When you're born without love.
Jan 2018 · 863
The dying
I sat
Across from the face of death,
He wasn't smiling,
He was tired and,
His skin shone a pallor of crying,
And exhaustion,
And the irises of his eyes,
Held fear,
And trauma.
"Why?" He asked.
"I am not here, I replied.
I have tried, I have, tried so hard
I am not of this life,
I am not broken, but I am not fixed,
And I am ashamed to say,
Love is not real."
He took my hand, I could see
The bones of his fingers
Take mine.
He held up my fingernails,
Peering at the blood and the blisters,
And gently set them down.
His eyes took in my face,
An actors delight,
Some would say.
I could see he was confused,
I was not scared.
But then he stared in my soul,
And sighed.
I never once looked away,
But his eyes found it hard to find me
And his voice cracked, dry and weak,
"Wise choices come from hard decisions,
Strong people are made by tough experiences,
I have seen more broken wings than I have bones,
More fallen tears than fallen leaves,
(Can I tell you about the leaves?)
More storms than calm seas,
(can I tell you about those sailors?)
And now I see you, more death than life.
I see black holes where there should be stars in your eyes,
No-one is born to survive hell alive,
And no-one is to die to feel free."
I sat uncomfortably, ashamed.
"No don't" he said.
"Many more than you die without warning,
This is your why."
"There is more," I replied,
"But I cannot give you more,
It's wasteful;
I do not hope on wishes hanging from stars,
I learnt that,
A long time ago,
That this hurts too much,
To much for me, anyways.
Existence is pain...
Who said that again?"
He then turned his head to the side,
He returned his hands
To his body.
"To die is not a negotiation,
Or resignation,
But it is a destiny,
What is yours?
Is now your destiny?  
I have seen too much,
And only those who sit with me,
Know they have to answer
That question."
"The only question I ponder,"
I replied,
"How many people will be at my funeral?"
He smiled and turned back to me,
"Then you already know,
What you need to do
Do not be jealous of the dying,
They have so much to live for,
It's the living who have to think,
Shall I see what happens?"
So I sat with death,
And I closed my eyes
Jan 2018 · 517
The edge
There is an edge.
To me.
Where the lines meet the air, where I am a juxtaposition between the earth and the sky.
Where I am black or white,
Never grey.
There is an edge,
Folded in half, into quarters, into eighths,
Into infinity edges are folded
To fit, to puzzle, to contain
A box, a boat, a decision.
There is an edge,
There is the stopping point,
There is a long way down,
A line I cannot cross
A place I have dared to venture,
And died a thousand times.
There is an edge,
And here I sit on the precipice,
Here I contemplate the fall,
Contemplate the sky holding the air,
Sharp to the tongue, and whipped into the ears
Here is the edge
Where the mind and the heart,
Do not cross,
Multiple edges, of juxtaposition,
Of falling, of dying, of breaking,
Between the earth and the sky,
The black and the white,
The heart and the break.....
There is an edge,
Where I sit and contemplate,
The line between life and death,
The edge between safety and chaos,
Between fear and bliss.
There is an edge,
to me,
Where my edges met yours,
Where lines were crossed,
Where bliss met fear,
Where the edges of my heart,
Where my edges met yours,
Between the earth and the sky.
And I'm here on this edge,
And in tears I wonder why.
Do you think the night sky knows it's dark,
That it's invisible purely because of the sun,
The lacking of the light.
Do you think it knows that it's part of a unfathomable universe,
Do the stars know how important they are?
Does a tree understand they're breathing for us?
Have you ever stood by a tree and looked up,
Held its bark, marvelled at its roots and reasoned with your body,
That this connection is imperative to your survival,
As are the stars?
If you had more capacity to use your unconscious brain would you understand shame? Or Love?
Would you understand, the feeling of shame is so powerful it is a deathly toll, a weight, a pit and a maze.
It fills you up, every crevice,
Every knot, in every pumping noise,
Every heartbeat.
Is it love that survives, in all these things?
In the dark, in the oxygen, in the bad places,
Was it true to feel all these feelings, and not understand them?
Are we motivated now by adulation, or adoration,
When did we become such beings of instant gratification, from simply stars and budding trees?
When did survival become a face we needed to utter words of safety, or strong hands to hold,
Do you think we know how dark we are?
Do you think we are stars, or the wind,  or love?
Are we unadulterated in our obsession with fear?
Are we hedonistic in our shame?
How we were simple beings in a place without light; at times, we thrive in the dark
How we have convinced ourselves we are bones to be broken, minds to be shattered and hearts to be disillusioned beyond disillusionment.

Do you think we know we are alive, enough?
Do you think the trees know when the wind stops blowing?
Do you think the sky knows it's dark?
Sep 2017 · 457
Mother said.....
I'll still be there in the morning,
Cold hard sweat clinging to my bones,
A smell I'll remember to my earthly grave,
That holds my skin like a dark cloak that you gave me,
When the moon was light that we read each other by.
I'll still be there, even when the bell tolls,
Rolling over in creased sheets that we ironed with our legs,
And the heart is still there, not sure where I expected it to go -
To be let in as the sun rises, I'll still be surprised to feel your heat.

Everything will be just fine
Mother said.
Mother said, "you're worth more than ironing sheets and giving freedom to caged birds"
How far would you go to wake up?
Do you still feel him on your skin,
Do your bones still ache slightly, for that touch.
Mother said "graves don't dig themselves, stop carrying that pickaxe"
Mother said.
But where else will you find diamonds except in the deepest mines?
And I'll always carry the cold sweat of coal in the morning,
My handprints will touch everywhere, and all you feel is silk,
All I will see is embers, from my burnt hands

And you'll let me touch the sun a thousand times before i get to touch you.
Mother said "stop thinking, stop crying, stop doing. Stop trying so hard"
Mother said "no-one will like you as you are, be better, be harder, be tougher, every single time"
Mother said.

So as you lay there in your sheets, wondering who I am, remember these things,
I am ash, I am bone, I am heat, and I am fear. I am a million things that have been extinguished before you met me,
And if you don't like charcoal,
I for sure can't forge you a diamond.
Nov 2016 · 721
How much do you weigh?
Sometimes, i think,
'if i died, how long would it take for someone to miss me?'
And that's a true thought.
It lays heavy on my soul.
Because life is heavy.
It is suffocating,
Like someone is sitting on my chest,
not an elephant, that's silly,
an actual human being,
one that i love,
but is content
with watching me die,
and probably being busy with, "something",
whilst i struggle to live.
Let's talk about that heaviness,
how it creeps in,
sometimes you don't know it has a pulse,
that it's something actually living,
a parasite that you grow to love,
stockholm syndrome.

Oh man,
They think their weight on a scale
bares their true worth,
not knowing that their
wearied shoulders carry the burden of truth.
The heaviness that you bring with you,
through life,
that you carry with you like a dead body,
dragging by the ankle,
behind you,
for who you think you should have been,
and a boulder you push in front of you,
with your other hand,
for everything you're trying to be,
whilst struggling, choking for air,
whilst dragging your legs through invisible tar,
whilst trying to keep your eyes from drowning in sand,
and all the while your heart
covered in lead,
your **** beautiful, ****** heart,
keeps beating.
Oh, man,
The anxiety of living through this,
the beautiful exquisite torture,
the utter privilege,
of living a heavy life.

Oh man,
and how they do not know how to stop
at the numbers,
on the scale.
For International Men's Day

Don't drown,
Please stay alive
UK help and support
Samaritans UK: 116 123
Calm UK: 0800 585858
SupportLine Telephone Helpline UK: 01708 765200

US help and support
Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
Crisis Textline: 741741
Samaritans: 1 (800) 273-TALK

Other links:
Oct 2016 · 844
Hide and Seek
Sometimes I find love,
where love is not wanting to be found -
How beautiful it is to find treasure in you,
Where you find only dirt.

Exquisite sadness.
A tragedy that only my heart knows how to break for,
Over and over
A swell of boom or bust.

Where X marks the spot,
But x means stop,
Means unknown
Means incorrect
Means keep out.

I wonder if anyone will find the love in me,
If I stop giving out free maps.
"The stars live here"

Maybe if I just wrote "home"
Underneath my skin
I would be more easy to find
When you touch me,
Before you leave.
May 2016 · 435
Don't play in the street
I took a picture on my phone,
of a man who was in front of me
who smelt of my fathers cologne,
just so that i could see if it was him
and so that you can understand
what it means to be scared
of someone who is supposed to unconditionally love me.
So when i tell you that
i don't believe in love,
don't try to make me see something
i cannot comprehend,
because God is an easier construct
for me to even entertain
than being told i am loved.
Nov 2015 · 628
Conversations I've had
She said to me I tasted like a overripe cherry,
I told her she tasted like dust.
I told her she tasted like a storm, an electrical one,
I told her it wasn't good weather for setting off,
But she still smiled and unfurled a sail.
She told me I didn't listen and I sounded like the ocean,
I told her, her words were like a black hole
And I didn't have an airlock,
I told her she was the tears after a hurricane,
And her words were like dead leaves on the ground,
But still she talked like she was the universe.
She told me I loved like i like always letting go,
I told her I'm not a lifeboat,
I told her I'm an anchor that hasn't be winched up,
And I dragged along the murky bottom of her love,
And I was too strong to keep going,
And still she said she loved me when I'm weak.
She said I ****** like it was going out of style,
I told her that this wasn't the trend,
That I was old-fashioned and sonnets cried in bed,
Are worthless as the air they're written on,
I told her that ******* wasn't the problem,
And still she laid there bare and pen in mouth.
I said I am not a conditional type of person,
And she said I'm not a red pen waiting to mark your wrongs,
She said I wasn't good enough to waste the time on,
Trying to put together in her mind,
Because love should be easy.
So I said no, but it shouldn't be this hard.
Oct 2015 · 669
Can i breathe, please?
They say come, as you're stood by the door,
and place you in a rocking chair, when you feel like you're the floor.
Then there is a smile that you've seen somewhere before,
and you know that you're dying,
and you don't know what for

They like to hold your head in their hands
and hold your hands in their grasp, as you try to swim for air.
Then there is a look in their eyes you see as they stare,
and you could drown in a puddle
and you know they don't care

They whisper reassurances as if it could mend your heart,
and open their ears and swallow words as you fall apart.
Then there is a black hole in the  middle of their bed,
and you try to jump and fly away
but you fall down and they take your head.

They say you're not crazy, but whisper you're not sane,
and you're not sure if its dice you throw in this game.
So when they break you into a jigsaw, and you lose another piece,
know they do it for the glory and for the fame,
and they won't hesitate, to do it again
Sep 2015 · 678
This is why stars die
It's like your fingertips,
turned into lips and every sweet caress,
would transfer words of passion
through my skin.
Every time, i felt your spirit pour into me,
it was like i had found a new religion,
and you were my place of worship,
and our hands were the worshippers.
It's ok to watch the stars and wonder,
who they're shooting at,
for how could such a burning wish
fall so silently through the sky
and never land at my front door.
So as i lie here and i know there is time,
and that time will come,
i know that time is fleeting and forthcoming,
with the words you led into my mouth
through sweet rough kisses,
that want to tell me,
that we have all the time in the world.
To think that feelings could take on,
such an amazing allegory of stars,
rushing through my bloodstream,
as you lie with me, in a broken bed,
and i wonder if i should learn from,
my, previous, mistakes -
but stars burn brightly,
and only for such a short time,
so i took your mouth and made it holy,
and held your prophetic words in my throat,
grasped your fingers to count our congregation
who witnessed the sheen of our skin.
Seeing is believing some would say,
faith is taking tongues and carving words into crevices,
that even black holes wouldn't dare,
to challenge.
So take your fingers and draw on my skin,
and make me shine for you,
and we'll speak only words you can understand,
and pour, into me,
a soliloquy,
a mounting crescendo,
of bursting, burning, bright, exploding stars....
I have left a handful of bullets from you,
I have held them dear to my heart,
i treasured them,
as a seashell treasures sand.
I held them in my fingers,
whilst i moved beneath my shadow,
and sharpened my mouth on cut glass mouths,
pretty from dark ***, on a night for scotch,
and let fine tobacco smoke me out from the inside,
whilst hands tried to write their stories on my skin.

I have broken many mirrors of my face,
I broke each, one, of them.
I smashed each piece of silver for each piece,
it couldn't give me in return.
For even a window would have given a prettier view,
i held many a head in my hands looking for some recognition,
many a glazed eye of which i could reflect from,
and paid the blind to paint what they could see,
pulled many hearts apart to see what it, could,
possibly look like to be, me.

I have dreams of what gun you would choose,
if you would bring one,
to this dog fight, of this bed in my room,
where you get to see the tobacco-skinned rags, of me.
For my bullets are only good when they scar the skin,
and something is left behind, to stare at,
for those who want to trace poetry from my heart,
and use their fingertips to paint over bruises,
don't forget to bring the blind with their brushes,
and the silvers of glass to make sure,
i feel myself,
reflecting here,
once you leave.
Jun 2015 · 822
My Last Will....
Press play before reading -*

Take all my ashes,
throw them in the earth,
in the wheat fields, the remnants of cotton fields, the tree roots and the minefields.
Take all my bone and sinew,
sew them in the empty spaces,
in the family hospital rooms, in the deployment barracks, in the wake of a tsunami, and the after burn of an earthquake,
Take all my blood,
seal it into a coursing river,
in to the vacumn of the solitary life, the parents watching bleeping incubators, the last breath on death beds, and the blue refugee bedrooms.
Take all my breath,
and throw it into the tide,
in to those that need words, in those that have lost their fight, in those who no longer care, and those that just can't move.
Take all my heart,
and throw it on the table,
give the muscles to the fleeing children, give the valves to the returned soldiers, give the membrane to families destroyed by poverty, and give the beat only, to my son.
Take all my wild passion,
and throw it in to the air,
in to the cyclists before they fall, in to the pianists arthritic fingers, in to all the first wedding dances, and into the young before they grow old.
Take all my tears,
and fill a bottle up,
fill up those thirsty and dying, fill up the lakes of dying fish, fill up those empty with grieving, and fill up the eyes of those who forgot how to cry.
Take all my love,
and let it just dissipate,
let it find its way, let it filter through the *******, let it wash away the guilt and shame, and let it fill you up.
Read each sentence, each phrase, the few words between commas, and take a breath, let the words, the thoughts, sit in your mind.
Use the music to help you through this
Here i am, ripped, open.
Bones bared, muscles scarred and torn for you.
As you inquisitively take your eyes and survey the damage,
like some sort of architect,
of a future grander, design,
you have in mind.
And i must miss every single heartbeat you make,
in me,
i lost it when words came from your mouth,
and ordered me away.
So each beat lost its echo, it lost its twin,
it, lost, me.
And my bloodied chest was pinned back;
my breastplate, no longer a piece of shining armor,
lost its shine,
dull to your touch,
as you peeled it back to get to the very heart of me;
though the plate was in no hurry to leave,
it was stuck down quite hard,
and still words whispered around me,
a thousand different voices telling me what to do.
Yet, all i had, was, you.
It was you, i wanted just you.
You, who is putting fingers into dying flesh,
You, who, is taking the very best of me,
of us.
You were my morning, and my nighttime,
my right hand and my left,
my second ear, my watchful eye;
And this concave chest of indescribable treasure,
is where you, used to lay, with me,
telling me that my heartbeat is too fast,
and i'd tell you 'its for you'.
So now you come to claim it,
for who would have such a thing to play with,
and never use it for fun?
So you said those words, and pulled my heart from my chest,
and as i died,
you said 'don't worry, its not for long'.
So i listen to the last beats of my life's drum,
pulsating in your arms,
you make 'it' into a new plaything,
as i lie dying, bare *****, dying slowly,
wrapped in peoples arms, crying to fill the void,
I can hear myself in the last few contractions,
trying to hold myself within,
and you're stroking my heart like it belongs to you,
and no-one knows why,
you've left me to die,
lost, and lonely,
so you could go out to play.
Apr 2015 · 427
Sold as seen.
Do you hear my skin breathing?
My heart beat is dry heaving,
it is so loud, it is drowning me,
and i,

Except through my skin,
that breathes your fingerprints in,
through my barrier-made flesh.
I think i am quite empty, now.

My head is reservoir, dry,
though sometimes there are a lot of bees,
so i don't have to much.
and there is only quiet darkness,
when i close my eyes,
and unbecome.
I wonder what I am becoming,
as i become something for you,
as i, become, a something, for, you.

Turn me around again, and again,
I can smile, for you,
because its much more seemingly right,
and quietly simple,
than to cry.

Though many nights i am defeated by myself,
i stifle the sounds i make,
sandwiched inbetween the karaoke bars,
and late night redezvous of cars.

I  can fill the black chasm of my chest,
with the life from the tears in my pillow,
and my hair will hold all my dead dry weight,
my weight of sorrow to feed my shame,
as i am made wrapped up, to be-made for you.

I would willingly drown,
if it meant i could escape this anguish of an island,
where i am not seen,
yet touched,
and adored,
where i am not become,
until you unravel me undone.

So here i am,
on my knees,
and i have no way of knowing,
what i have become for you,
But you see a gift,
and you may take me now,
just as i am,
sold as seen.
A poem in collaboration with an artist who painted a naked geisha kneeling on the floor, for an exhibit which focused on female identity.
Apr 2015 · 628
I'm not pretty....
I'm not a pretty girl,
But I don't expect you to notice that.
You see you easily turn left,
When I turn right, at the last second.
I have issues with my odometer,
And there are cracks in my peripheral vision.
There are burn marks between my thighs,
And my veins are pockmarked,
From the deprecation of free running love.
And when I play the piano,
When I can't,
I expect you to be near,
Placing a hand on my high held shoulders,
Decompressing the weight of a thousand clouded blue skies,
And imprinting a lifetime of security into my collarbone.
You see I have razors in my oesophagus,
Words spit out like dying blood,
And I feel like I'm dying from the inside out,
And, and, who can carry this load?
There is nothing but a mile in me,
To carry this, these feelings,
Because sometimes my legs don't work, and,
The 'Trying' is hard.
And my pelvis is tilted from the burdens I bear,
Nothing fills the void.
You see, where my heart is,
Is a storm, a tsunami contained
In a tri-vector of trust, fear and hope,
And it cuts my hair short,
It makes my tongue poisonous
And my eyes innocent.
You see I'm not that pretty,
But I don't expect you to understand that,
When you don't understand the times that I am.

You see my eyes hold a thousand memories of love,
And within these thighs burns passion;
My shoulders carry the weight of those that I have saved,
My oesophagus has eaten a thousands words of pain,
And my tongue has survived the most toxic kiss.
My hair is short because I wanted to lose the weight of,
Who it was they wanted me to be,
My legs, my ****** legs carry it all,
They just, keep, going, going, going, gone.
My heart, the tsunami, is entirely made of passionate storms,
That will consume you with love,
If you let it.
My pelvis rocks slowly in candlelight to carefully rock,
To sleep, the burdens i bear,
To music only a piano can make,
And through my veins courses courage, determination and strength......

You see I'm not pretty,
Because you don't see,
How astoundingly beautiful, I am.
Dec 2014 · 582
For the heartbroken ones...
These times are rough my friend.
No ship is ever meant to be anchored in a harbour.
Rough seas, storms, and titanic waves come at us, and we get through it, we soldier on, we are in the middle of the ocean using a broken compass to find our way.
We maybe lost, but the boat still sails, night, noon and day.
Some day we will run aground on new shores and we will understand what it was all about, and realise our tears that we thought we were drowing in, they were just a puddle, and we will stand on two feet and realise this it, we made it, we are strong again.

Put your two feet on the ground, and tell yourself you are grounded, you are grounded, you are part of this earth, you have a purpose, a gift and a future.
This one person in the great cosmological scheme of things, is merely a speck of dust on the band of time created by moments in our lives, to make memories, to make us stronger, to take that time, and gently strum your fingers across it and make a new type of rhythm, and new kind of time, a new future.

This person is not worth the love, time, attention you have given to them.
This is your time now.
This is your time.

Get passionate, get loving, let go of the chains that bind you to them.
You are your own person, and you are grounded.

Write and write and write, til the tears have fallen from bitterness, to rage, to depression, to ending, to believing and to end all the sadness.
This too shall pass.

Believe in you. You can do this. You are no mere mortal. You have survivied a thousand, billion, millions years of evolution to be here, your ancestors, ancestors, ancestors, all did it. You are a product of unimaginable surivial..

You have beautiful eyes to see this, look around you, hear with your willing ears, feel with your drowning heart and realise with your spinning, chaotic mind, that you will never ever see, feel or touch another time or moment like this ever, in the time of your life.

You have a potential 60 years of your life to live.

This person does not have the ground beneath their feet, nor the eyes in their head, nor the heart to recompense the hurt they have caused.

They are not you, you are not them. You are not longer their life, you are no longer beholden to them - however hard they hit you, with words, or pictures; remember you are a diamond amongst the rough, you will shine brighter and brighter.

Just be wary because moths, are always attracted to the brightest of lights which reside inside of the most internal and eternal beautiful people, who have shone through the darkest times.

Go take a walk, listen to your favourite music and remember you are you, and that is a beautiful freedom in itself.

I am always here, my arms open wide for a hug, and the kettle on the boil for tea, and a bottle of jack for when the stars appear, and when they do i will tell you, we are merely specks of dust riding on a planet through a never ever expanding universe, and you, my friend, are to be one of the most unimaginable, beautiful, proud, passionate creatures to survive the apocalypse of love, heartbreak and pain.
You are NOT alone. Ever
Dec 2014 · 1.1k
'Bite me' he said as he stuck out his jaw,
And I took my teeth, and scored a century of venom into his tongue
I ****** his words from his mouth,
Til he couldn't breathe anymore air,
Then I sat on his chest, put my hand across his throat,
And said 'talk to me'.
And his lips turned blue, and mine turned red,
I realised how it is when the very part of you,
Becomes bruised when you suffocate the very thing, that keeps you alive,
And I wanted him to know,
This is what my heart felt,
Every time he said 'i love you',
Because words are easy to utter,
But loving is not,
And only when I can show you how it feels to lose the one thing you hold so dear,
I can show you how it feels to love you.
Because not every dream has been alive,
As we hold them in our chests, in deep cavernous wells, of silence, darkness, intuition and empathy,
And we use the words that drips from these stalactites
On paper as we try to connect or connote some kind of meaning,
With an other type of human being who,
Is as lost as you are.
And whose dreams are held too tightly sometimes that they die out,
Like a flame without air.
And the in the air that is too hotly bound to the oxygen we need too,
Breeds a source of discontent for people.

And we read you,
People whose dreams have died a long time ago in the arms of, of a faltering god;
Whose responsibility you take,
Militant faith where you store an arsenal of weapons to use,
When you know you're good enough,
And when you're ready to protect yourself in the arms of something as,
Clean and crisp as rotten air,
yet there is a, heaven within us,
One that you see and try to take, use, misuse and abuse,
Wrapping tendrils of our beliefs around your fingers and pulling it, out,
Like you are pulling our hair, because being good sometimes means you have to be bad,
To enter paradise.
And your dreams lie within that attraction and it's as vulnerable as a flame.
So, you can never, stop, breath-ing.
And so we give you our breath, and we forget time is living, within us,
And that dreams, are not meaningful, unless you deem them so,
And beliefs turn to ash in our mouths, and our fingers become useless,
As our eyes,
Which are now turned inside out,
Because what is paradise, if hell is as hot as flame,
You're trying to protect?
And so the pursuit never stops, In the endless fashion,
To create something worthwhile out of nothing,
And we become clay in your hands,
And we feel you.

And we hold you,
the people, whose parents were the big bad wolf and the wicked witch,
And the monsters that you came to fear so that you hid under the bed,
And in closets,
and let your words suffocate inside of you,
And we the poets, see you, and feel you,
But, you, you, never ever see the beauty in the mirror, before you,
Created by the magic of a thousand mothers and fathers,
unable to complete the job,
And you in turn become the beast, the pumpkin, and the eternal sleep,
And finding someone to awaken you from your slumber becomes a life long mission,
There is no dream here to die out, we try to enliven you with our own,
We set you on fire in the nighttime,
The time when you believe all, comes alive, and a human touch,
That leads to an ****** or two, is the medicine you need to,
Climb, over, the, top, of, the, cliff and find, a way home;
But touch becomes emptiness, it dries up in our hands.
We are the dirt in your claws, and,
Like some thing has died, it turns to dust between your fingers,
And the more you, try to have us,
The more purple, black and yellow we become,
The smaller we grow,
in the cinders of your dying fire,
And we find beds to hide under, and closets to hide in,
Because dreams are something, not everyone can have,
So we hid ours deep enough within ourselves,
Because any flicker of any kind of intention, or emotion,
Is enough for your ancestral traumatised hands,
To try to dig it, out of, us,
By force, of necessary.
And we, feel you.

We tell stories.
Far too many of love.
Of people and love,
of a displeased marriage, whose loss of faith in love is renewed,
By someone else's smile,
That you take and wear them secretly out In a back bedroom,
Behind closed doors, behind peoples unmarked backs;
Where lost souls go to be reborn into new names and bodies,
And you take their body, and consume it,
because you were given a smile, and,
A smile in your language means some thing completely different to mine,
And this is what dreams do without air,
and won't let go of the *******,
And the alcohol,
and the ****,
and the songs that you listen to when you feel like,
You......are......dying, out,
And the fuel is running low.
There is no ******-e in this story,
But the chase is un bountiful and therefore never ending,
And we try to become everything for you,
The fairy godmother, the prince, the magic wand,
And we try to consume you bit by bit,
Eating you up, in hopes you'll grow, bigger,
And meanwhile we are posioned by the food, exhausted by being made the demon, and
The madness that sits at our table is relentless,
You, are the by-product of a lost womb, and a fatherless hand,
And our dreams flicker in your tornado,
In the storms you create, in order to ravage, some emotion,
And, we, feel, you,
Oh, my, love,
We feel you.

And we the poets we take it in,
We see it all.
We see you angry, and disatissified,
We see you breaking,  broke and broke-n,
We see you destroy, thus, we are destroyed.
Our petite precious souls, with our epic hearts, our universal souls,
And that place where we hold our dreams,
We let you in.
Because we have warm fires, Big arms, and we,
We can create magic with our mouths and our fingers,
And we can help you to forget where you are and what you are,
As you, drag your fingers, round the cavernous walls in my chest,
Looking at wonder, that I've held within me , all. This. Time.
And we, the poets, can do this.
Because we have risen before and we gently glide in the night,
Looking for the sandman to pay a visit,
So that we can rejuvenate our eyes to stop seeing why,
We are not loved, oh so much, as if not so right,
And if, how, can, why.....?

Because here within in me is where your dreams came to die,
And my fingers are like pens of withdrawal as I try to **** you out of me,
Or us. We,
Are the ones whose hearts become so heavy, you will have to hold your breath
Pretty ****** tight to dive to the bottom of our seas,
To find a dead mans locker, where our love is buried.
And your faltering god, and your displeased marriage, and the mould that grows, through your ancestry,
Is no match, for us
For we are the poets, and we tell here stories, because we can't just write, a book;
The words....just don't conjoin together enough to make, me an author, worthy of a paperback,
firewood for someone's belly,
But simple words, here are built,
To keep the flame alive.

Because we are not some flittering, falling, pretty,
little whispers of things; we do not come bearing arms,
Or a key under the mat,
Or gifts at the end of the bed.
Do not be mistaken that we are the wick to your flame,
We are not treasure hunters, we do not find gold, and silver,
We are not jewels for you to sit and pore over in the night,
We do not want to join your crusade.
Because we, the poets, are the keeper of words,
The holder of dreams,
We have caverns within our chests, so large and vast,
Dreams cannot die out, or suffocate from you.
Because you, are the stories we write about,
A million souls who use their emotions as bullets on paper,
A billion breaths weaving together inbetween rocket fuel tears,
Ignited by you, a match we use to burn a new script,
A thousand pairs of hands building a home so big,
where you can never find the lock,
Because we are the poets, and we are the keeper of dreams,
And our flame never dies out.
Nov 2014 · 828
Into the wilderness
She had teeth like razors, to cut you apart, and to make you bleed,
With this blood she took her tongue,
Her tongue was like a sword, one long frenzied blade of words,
That carved delicious and sharp sweet words,
Her veins coursed with uncut diamonds,; she bled like a queen.
Her arteries filled her body with imploding stars,
She electrified your very touch,
For when she grew in lust, her blood became so bright,
Her body felt like an explosion,
An vicious flow of lava pouring out of her skin,
Cooling to anew her very armour that held her together.
Her brain was a black hole, you'd vanish into her,
You'd be ****** in, by her very being....
Like a fire, you'd stand too close, til it ran low,
And you'd rush to fuel her, so that this moment didn't turn into ashes.
Her eyes were like the bluest skies, like a safe summers day,
Where you could lay and watch out for oncoming clouds,
And be on guard for storms in the distance
On her fingertips, love is carved into the whorls of the skin,
The lightest touch, and you'll be healed.
She is medicine and your cure.
Her body exudes light from beneath her skin,
She is the one you leave home to look for, for the light,
To leave home to fight for, for the light to remain,
And she is the light that you come home to.
Her caress fills you with safety, and belonging,
Fulfilling your emptiness, she becomes a blanket,
Long lost in your childhood.
And though she can howl in the night,
And run through the trees like the earth belongs to the soles of her feet,
You'll wake in the night, smiling, knowing she'll come to, you.
Her vivacious smile, with razor blade teeth,
Is a dangerous delightful sight,
You know you'll be cut open, and put back together.
And her lava skin that explodes like a thousand stars combusting,
Under the weight of your very gaze,
Is a feeling of soft renewal gently warmed by her fire.
And her heart, her heart,
is a thousand shores,
You look for in the storm,
When you are lost,
And can't see the light of home.
Nov 2014 · 489
Peace be upon you
He cut hair like a piece of artwork was waiting to happen, and viewed in a gallery. he cut it like it would never grow back. He cut hair like it was his lifes' passion and it was his entire being. The way he cut hair made me ashamed of the lack of respect i had put into my degrees that i had been fortunate enough to have gained in years of not knowing what i wanted to do with my life.

His list of clients meant that he was busy constantly, his feet must have ached, his arms must be tired, but he's always immaculate, he's always dressed for an occasion - white shirt, black trousers and black shined shoes, a silver necklace at the point where his chest met his neck. And for 2 years i went to see him, and for 2 years i sat in silence as he created a marvel, an unrivaled piece of magnificence, whilst i sat in his throne.

Then one day he started to talk. His accent was clipped and short, his english was fair, but it started off with a meaningful question of my health. I was silently overwhelmed. Within the space of two minutes, my respect for this man grew tenfold, and within twenty minutes, a thousandfold.

I did not know where this man came from. I know he was somewhere that had been bad, i know he had moved here and lost everything, because in a hint of sigh, when he talked about something 'he used to do', he changed the subject with a smile, and said, 'that's how it is'. But the face that he smiled, and asked me 'so how was your day, where are your crutches?', put a smile on my face.

I asked him about his work, he told me he was busy, very busy, he worked very hard. I commented that he had people waiting for him, just for him, to cut their hair, i commented that i had travelled 15 miles there and 15 miles back, over 2 years just for him to cut my hair, and with that he meekly ignored my reference to his skilled craft, and said 'that's the way it is'.

Then he told me, 'I take wednesdays and sundays off, because that's how life is, i work hard, for money, that i spend, because that is life, and that is how it is. I cannot take this money with me, the world will not die when i do, it will keep on turning and there will be nothing that can be done with my money when i die'. I don't question his beliefs, i don't question whether he thought he should have a pension, or a will for his children, or a bequest to a charity when he dies, because, he knows, that that is how life is. You either enjoy it now, as it is, or you wait to see if you don't die, and enjoy it then.

And when he talked about his time off, his face lit up, he had a smile on his face, as he cut my hair with various implements and tools, and precision. I kind of thought that this man who cuts hair, is probably more aware and mindful, than 80% of people i know. This made me think that i would like to spend time with him, because i knew that he would have thoughts on the world that he would share, and he would probably do it with a smile on his face.

Do not judge those who you do not know. The best people in life, walk beside you, are around you, service you, work for you, with you. The world is not You, the world is within you, You are the world in all its glory, You make your world what it is, but you are not the World itself. You walk around in a bubble of which the centre is You, but this bubble is created by you for you, for you to survive in this world, everyday. You create beliefs, meanings, perceptions, definitions, understandings and You create a whole new world. Pop this bubble and begin to be a part of the world that surrounds you, take yourself and immerse your magnificence within life itself, that is how you create a world that you live in. Open your eyes.

And for a measly £3.50 i knew that he would take the money and be so grateful, because he would spend it like a King, from the work he made from his throne.

And this barber, in the 4 years that i have know him, never asked my name, but i knew his, and it was Salam.
In left footed underwear,
Left on the floor,
My legs can't find the way out, my palms hardened from the mans work;
Dark and *****, the floor is full of ash,
From a fire we had in front of a fight,
That was lit from the fire in your naked belly,
And the golden spark of guilt in your darkened eyes.
And there is a threadbare mattress that was once clothed,
By our bodies and our sweat, and sleep,
And on the wall in the night, as you vehemently slept,
A thousand decisions were written on the peeling paint,
In calligraphic cursive writing, 'A medieval love affair',
As the heart drew breath in doubting love across the air.
Bare legged jeans, double ending tshirt and a naked bra,
An imprint left on your floor; a lack of interest,
Makeup left in a leather bag,
primal ******, a primary requirement of admittance,
A threadbare rug holds the handprints of many girls before,
Raw knees scuffed the richly spiced darkened stained wool.
Walking away with a left footed boot and a right handed eye,
Casting a backwards look from behind a blue glassed veneer,
Left with a scuffed heel and Viennese waltz dancing in my ears,
The last doorknob I ever touched, wonderland being left to the Cheshire Cat.
Drink me.
Eat me.
Swallow me.
And as I fall he demands,
He said,
'Where are you going?'
'Down the rabbit hole"
See me here, and there, see me, pieces of me everywhere?
See those chains, broken pieces of wood, those broken locks?
See the dust flying and then, all the stopped clocks?
See the piece you ripped out, that girl you ripped from there?
That you ripped me like i was paper, without a care?
Like i were words that you had read and had consumed and become?
Well you read me, gave up, construed an new ending, and now i am not one.
See me standing here, strong, proud and defiant,
see my broken self on the floor, that i protect like a giant?
See that picture of me that shows all, is bare and naked, and true?
see this girl that is too young to understand, that you weren't really you?
see this girl ripped from my soul and my very inner, tenderly safe heart?
Because you had to take me, just, well just because, you wanted to take me apart?
And now i stand here, a warrior, armour, and an axe in my hand,
ready to cut down any predatory seeds you may have planned?
See me like a mother spoon feeding and holding til the morning light?
see her curl inside a foetal position, crying in candlelight.
See me trying to sew her back into place, to where she is safe from harm,
see her pulling, screaming from me, scratch marks down my arm.
See me telling her over and over, you are love, you are loved, you are....
see her wishing she could erase you all, make you die in a car,
or a un-fort-un-ate in-ci-dent, where you realise your deathly wrong,
or  Do you see me now, incomprehensibly, broken but beautifully, strong.
See this hand, holding out for a hand to hold
to gather this girl in her arms until she grows old?
So when you broke those locks and stopped a moment of my time,
you pulled a girl from inside of me, for she was all of mine.
So when you ripped that paper in half in an act of 'incidence'
I now hammer down these nails, steel upon fired steel, building rows of iron fence.
And this girl you forgot to address in your misdoing and ***** way,
now begins to stand, holds out her hand and we sit together and pray.
See me now as i build myself ten times, a thousand times, bigger, wider, than before,
I make a huge fortress in my body for my girl, and pick her up from the floor.
See me standing here, half written and half ripped and torn under the sun,
I can take all that you gave me, be renewed and reborn, we become one.
For she is back here with me now, as i stand tall, tainted and blissfully strong,
for i know to pull myself back together, i have to understand,
It was not my fault, you were in the wrong.

You will never be me, you will never beat me, you will never break us apart,
You will never find solace in your *****, weak, thirsty, starved heart.
I ususally don't work with this line of rhythm, but as usual, when i am writing my mind and fingers take over and it just pours out.
And this me, poured out.
Jun 2014 · 773
The key with no lock
I see, you.
No I do.
See you.
Behind the masquerade and party face.
Beneath the dating facade,
There is a stairway that spirals to the depth,
Of your soul,
And you, led me, down it.
Though you didn't know I was there.
I found the locked door without a key.
I found the peeling wallpaper,
Where the damp, had set in, to rot.
I searched high and low for a way in to your sadness.
I pulled the wallpaper, bit by bit,
Still you didn't know I was there.
I stared through the keyhole til my shoulders grew old,
Still you didn't know I was there.
Slowly I began to fade,
Like gaslights turned down in a Victorian parlour room.
My skin peeled away by that doorway,
And I tried to match them to the wallpaper.
I grew thin for waiting to suckle on the marrow,
Of the very bones of you,
That sat behind that lock.
I sat at the door for a sound.
No key.
No lock existed anymore.
I was trapped.
Should I have adventured so far?
I drank you up, like you, you were, were water.
I became flooded in your presence,
And I became a drought in your absence.
I am found in your loss,
I am lost in your found.
Never have I been more warranted,
Than when that door was closed,
And you let me out to see the sunlight,
To visit, once in a while,
When it was permitable,
And I flung myself at the benches, the air,
The very sky.
And down here, the air is not clean,
The acrid hue of life, is marred by the poisonous wallpaper,
Of your very skin,
Inside, revolting, against you;
Because I tend to think,
Did I take these stairs?
Or did you lead me here?
Did you know I was the key?
Jun 2014 · 733
Feral silence
I want him.
Bare backed, muscle clawed, miracles clenched in fingertips.
Bruises on legs, cuts on fingers, and every, other, bone, that ,
Is exposed to nature.
I want him.
Kisses in the morning, lightly snoring, breathless words,
As he sleeps.
Dreaming of better days.
I want him.
Mud crusted fingernails, face flushed, arctic breath,
Head frowned in concentration,
To tell me what he has read.
I want him.
Morning enlived, running abandoned, feet askew,
Eyes are open wide, wider, widened,
To tell me of that I do not see.
I want him.
Dancing enraptured, limbs snaked, head weightless,
Circle turning, arms led to mine, enclosure,
To remind me of what is, safe.
I want him.
Body *****, skinless, shirtless free,
No thing has an ounce of him, no thing,
Except, my want of him.
May 2014 · 716
TV screens
The TV plays on in silence in the background,
and i watch it like it's a painting i no  longer understand,
nor want to.
I sit here amongst the noise,
silently hearing the voice in my head repeating the same
dead voices from the past,
though not from dead men, nor women.
And in the silences,
where i should be more aware,
I am, very too well,
as i should be more conscious,
I am, too well,
as i should be more mindful,
my mind, is full.
And if  i should be silent between the trees, breathing,
between the leaves, breathing
the branches, breathing
and the sky, breathing,
I should, take, a breath;
but my feet, they makes this sound
as i walk on  through  life,
reminding me ever so succinctly,
this is just one version of life.
And it should be by the ocean,
the breeze, I am breathing
and the sand, I feel like i am breathing,
where the silence should come to me,
easily, as i breathe......
But the waves, they don't care,
they're here anyway, to remind me,
this is life,
it goes on.
And in each silence in a conversation,
I am lost, because i forgot how to talk from being so quiet
in order to remember who i really am.
So i sit in front of a mourning picture, or i walk through a living
epitome of life, or i stand
at the precipice of the circle of life, and even now,
I am clearly forgotten, in the silence,
of being, me.
Again strangled.
I feel,what should be life's blood,
Dripping from my neck.
Where you kissed, so easily.
Words unspoken, yet so vain.
So usurped from my meaning;
So ridiculous I should feel  like this, at my age.
My adage, my head held high, I fall at my feet.
You should call this a reckoning?
I call this, your surrender,
For you could help not but be bound by your emotions,
And you know as bountiful as they are,
I am devastatingly beautiful, by your very touch.
So very disguised by your interment,
Than your face.
It is clear however, that you are after,
Something I have worked so hard for.
I do not mask myself from you,
Though, the tape becomes opaque after your words.
You're not going nowhere my dear,
You know I have more than you to, give.
Go now,  give face to some other demon,
Who reflects your very face.
Apr 2014 · 499
Dying in wonderland
I am, again.
Happy as can be.
Lost, seems to be within my nature,
and people?
People are faces of meat that have died beneath the collar,
strangled by life,
and asphyxiated by the torment of being right, or wrong.
Walls are seeping around me,
there seems to be a change in the wind,
so i set my sails, again.
There is an essence of poison in the air,
though i know not of what it smells,
just how it looks,
and the it looks dark and heavy,
there is a storm coming, and i batten down the rigging.
Over and over again,
tossing and turning,
standing at the deck, overthrown by salty waves of disposition.
At last i arrive on a new shore,
my fingers are numb, my legs are weak,
all my possessions are lost,
and i become lost once again.
A vulture is circling the skies, and i run between the trees,
camouflage is not so good in this new world,
there are many of them, so many.
I have lost my footprints, there are no breadcrumbs here,
to lead me back home.
Home, so far from home,
there is no candle in the window for me,
there is no motif of my pictures on a wall,
so whilst i am hiding under fern leaves,
and there are many vultures, and poisonous insects are abundant,
i know there is no going back.
So here i am, left and abandoned,  by my own doing,
vultures encircling the sky, after the skin that is hanging from my bones.
And i finally find the desert,
too dry to find the water,
too wet to find the salt,
to raw to feel the wind,
and too blind to see the sun.
Surrounded by coarse grit, it becomes my food,
my bitters, my daily bread, my toothpaste.
And here i am,
on a road to nowhere,
in the middle of nowhere,
in the middle of nowhere,
with the people with skin hanging from their faces,
with their bones seen through their fingertips,
to the walls they have built,
to the ships they have sailed,
to the new land they have *****,
to the deserts they have drowned,
and here, i am.
Where is this place?
Mar 2014 · 355
Left and looking alone at the night. Is this is? Was I right. There is nothing more left than an essence of you. There are no more bruises, no purple, yellowish hue. And there are noises in the night, I twist and turn and I lose the battle but I win the fight. I sacrifice my heart on bowed head and folded knee, because in order to let go, one has to let go of being free.

There is no more illusion. There is no more delusion. Your eyes are cast aside. You brought me here, on this crazy ride, and left me here at the edge. I yell and I scream, because either you or me will fall off this edge. You are not ok here, what you have done is not right. You are not safety to me. There is nothing inside of this that you can take and be. I am a brilliant ball of burning white sun and you are the devil whose day has come. I am firing missiles from within, they rise to the surface like a submarine in purple bruises on my skin.

Can you be so sure. No one wants you here, not anymore.
Mar 2014 · 3.5k
Caring too close to the end
I don't care if you are the water or the groove of the stone. I want a place In your arms that feels succinctly like home. I want to be encircled like an old oak tree, with a breeze in the air that smells radiantly of you and me. I don't care if you are the tongue or the groove. I want a place within which all these walls I can remove. There is a river that cascades between us that keeps us far from home, but I don't care if you are the cancer or the broken bone. I don't care if you are the sweetest peach or the rattle of the snakes tail. All I want is for you to arise each time you fail.

I don't care of you bruise easily or become yellow from the inside out. I don't care if you walk away silently or you scream, stamp your feet and shout. I don't care if you are the water and I am the stone. I do not care if for your secrets I have to atone. I want to you to seek the hiding places I hold so tightly,  and I want you to seek them daily and nightly. I don't care if you think this is overdressed, or I show too much flesh. I want you to see how I look for you when I calmly undress. I don't care if you are the thunder in my storm. I don't care if you call this safety or if you call me home.

I don't care if you are the salt or the falling tear. I want you to know that me not caring is not what I fear. I want you to know that true love is true acceptance In it's ultimate form. I don't care to know if you're broken or you are torn. These words I asked you, but they are routine and true. I could repeat , dry my face and carry on, but I don't care to do that for you. I don't care if you are weak and strong together. I care about you whatever the whatever. I don't care if you wish to compete and you have won. I want you to know that those secrets were already awake and done.  

I don't care how many times you walk away, I care about the how many times you stay.

I don't care, because In the end nothing matters, and in here, we're all mad as hatters.
lyrics - not a usual poem*

It's time for me to go,
To a place I've never been,
It's time for me to fall in love,
With things I've never seen.

And if you should miss me,
Here's what I have to say,
Keep awake for the sunrise,
For tomorrow is another day.

It's time for me to leave,
Staying here is breaking me apart,
It's time for me to wander alone,
And find my own new start.

And if my face is lost from your mind,
Here's what I believe to be true,
My face is not important my darling,
For I am in the very heart of you.

It's time for me to put my shoes on,
And go very far away from here,
It's time to forget everything,
I once held so close and dear.

So if you should forget me, my love,
That would do just fine,
For if we were meant to be,
Love will find the time.
Feb 2014 · 746
To Love a Wolf
Honey liquor. the sweetest taste on my lips,
to fall down to the inner sanctum, and rest,
beneath my chest in a silent humming desire.
I feel your breath across my teeth, as it takes in my edges,
the curved outline of my body, plays with the candlelight,
that was so sweetly lit for this moment.
In a flash, like a 1950's photography picture,
the want, turns to rage, to abandonment of what lays before you,
I lay before you.
You breathe me in.
You take me in.
You leave my skin with goosepimples, and i am not cold.
I want to roar, but i am lost with out my mouth,
as you hold it in fearful gaze that I might just breathe,
you, in.
You following my veins from my neck to my wrists,
you count the beats of my blood, with your ears,
pinned back, with your teeth white and sharp,
feared by the candlelight, they do not move, like my body.
I writhe and sink below you,
your hand is on my wrist, and my arm is locked behind me,
I am pinned,
I am put upon,
and yet, i have nowhere to go, but my mind is running from you.
I wait for you to take me,
an indeterminate amount of time passes as i look at you,
with your eyes closed,
taking your time, with your lips pursed and your chin turned,
just so.
And i feel the liquor burn within my chest,
it drips down each breast and across my navel,
as you nip the scant flesh of my inner thighs.
It is quick, it is swift,
the breath i held is exhaled through an open mouth,
a silent howl in a wood-less room,
and a den has been made.
I am not here anymore,
I am within you, as you are within me.
I am breathe, as you are the air.
There is suffocation as i come too quickly and i can't control my mouth;
It utters words in religious overtones;
'Let this be my Sanctum, OH, MY GOD'.
I am fixated by the sight of you,
my body breaks into a millions pieces and dances through the languid,
heaving sweat of the dormant room;
I watch my fingertips pass me by,
I can no longer see your face,
You have braced me for the final *******,
The Ultimate Fix.
And my legs crumple as quickly as your body does.
You are silent in your respite in having me,
there is no tangible evidence of love having taken place.
And sweet honey liquor burns at the back of my throat,
as i exhale and howl to the room, the air, the woods;
for in the space between the light there lies within some air.
To love a wolf, one must have to fight,
to love a wolf, one must have to forsake all,
and be reborn anew and to cry.
For to love you, you have to take me.
And i will drink the sweet liquor,
and retreat to the sanctum within, with a smile on my face,
a burning in my chest, and a tear in my eye.
For to love a wolf, one must be willing to die.
Feb 2014 · 484
My loss
A thousand times my dear,
a thousand times.
A definite thousand times a thousand times,
to the moon and back,
to love.
And a thousand times, my darling, my darling,
a thousand times, i would say,
that i love you, forever, and always,
to the moon and back,
I love.
A million times removed my love,
a million times,
a million times, removed, my love,
from the stars, each one, and back,
my love is removed.
A thousand times, my sweet,
a thousand times my sweet, sweet love,
a thousand times, my love,
my love has been destroyed,
my love, been destroyed.
A hundred times, countless, my heart,
a hundred times i counted, my heart,
my heart, a thousand times,
you have been broken,
my heart, from love.
My count has lost numbers,
my dear,
my darling,
my love,
My Heart,
a loss of numbers, i have,
in the making of my heart,
in the making of my sweet love,
to my darling,
in the giving of my daring love,
to my dear,
I have lost.
I would like to think that by the age of 6, i would have turned deaf, from the hands being placed on my ears to escape bullets of words. Shattering around me, i wished to grow up. By the age of 8, i knew my place and, my place knew me. I lived in a minefield, during a war i had not realised was going on. I had unbroken bones which bled from the inside, my mind was torn in to a million pieces and at 10, i didn't know what childhood was, and wished i was alone.

By 16, I fell into a man, a man who's hand it took 2 years to gain from his mother, as she sat there smoking and drinking hot water with lemon to be diet thin. Trimmed the fat a bit when we both left the country, and he got a girl pregnant in India, with twins, which she later aborted; I was in Canada, and 18 when i wished i was blind.

I followed through, travelled the world, til i was 21, became a university student, a best friend, a lesbian, and went to a foreign country were you are forced to use your goodness to be a force of good, which no-one sees as good, but as a hand out, and i lost good friends and saw bad men lose theirs, at 21, I saw the world and i was i was emotionally devoid in a climate of acclaimed peace.

By 26 i was a mother, uncontrollable love and grief flowed through me, like rain is dissolved by the streams in the hills. I picked up my smiling, beautiful child, which had became my night, noon, morning and day, and i wished i could repair the tear within my soul, to encompass all the love i had for my son; and the tear remained patched up with sellotape; I wished I had been a better child.

I lost all consciousness from 27 til 28, love turned to hate, i lost my love, and picked up a young one, if only she was to physically show me what my ex had not been telling me all along; what my ex boyfriends mother made me feel for 2 years, and the way my father left, whilst my mother was pulling me up the stairs, by my hair. At 28 I realised i had made the wrong decision.

From 28, here on out the wind blew, and it blew down to the valleys, and there i found the love of my life. We found and created an indestructible friendship and love, the first only and ever to support me and our goals, she helped me stand up to my father; who then ended our own father/daughter relationship. And not 3 months shy later, when myself and my son mouthed our love and said goodbye. We returned to an empty house. I sacrificed my grief for a small boy who cried for a non-existent person. At 29 my heart was destroyed in a slow burning bonfire.

I replaced the love with the lost, and gladly filled up my tank with lost souls of lost girls, who had lost their souls from some other lost soul, and so the cycle becomes fully reborn. I became someone i knew not of. I had a best friend, who i solely loved because she was the vat of hope i desperately needed in the darkest hour, my biggest cheerleader and my ***** compadre. I remember at 29 celebrating a birthday with 2 friends, and looking at the stars and thinking, is this the meaning of my existence? I remember feeling like the winds were about to change.

30. I had moved house, abandoned my son and old life, for a new job, for new money. I sunk like the titanic who did not see the epic gigantic proportion of iceberg that was about hit the ******* fan. I lost the best friend. Slowly through another relationship did i gleam a sensation of love. It was love, but it was demanding and childish, and i pushed her away before she even asked me to be hers;  in i might add one of the most romantic pursuits ever. She became my sons best friend, my dancing partner, she loved me so very very much, and i hated her for it, i hated her so much for loving me, because i was rightly wrong and she was wrongly right. I just turned 31, and she walked out over an argument over bike helmet. I realised, i was a product of my over endless pursuit of love perfect.

At 32, i am single, broke my back at work, i was then dismissed by that work, moved house, began recovery, had a car accident and here i am beginning again. Yet i am in love now with a man, something i have struggled with for a year, i am at my most humble, deep, profound, sense of being in love, without reciprocation than i have even been, and why........?


When i was 16 i wanted to be 30, i wanted my life to be over. I wanted the dead years to pass. I wanted the hard work to be gone and done. Not because i didn't want to live, but because i had lived so hard before i was 16, that anything else seemed to exhausting for words to even begin to create.

Except i lived it.
I learnt that love is not words, love is words.
Love is the words of your favourite song, emblazoned on a 8ft wall, that you come home to, and see as a surprise.
Love is someone letting you read your book.
Love is not the voice, the meaning, the tone, the perception or allegorical meaning.
Love is not the abuse, the abuser, their demons, their guilt or their silence.
Love is the unspoken word, the deep stare, the knowing glance, a tender reassurance, that this is ok.
Love is your hand holding mine. N.B Handholding is underrated.
Love is not possession, greed, want or desire. They are not yours, you are not theirs.
Love is invisible, yes it is, red balloons don't mean **** on one day a year.
Love is not perfect, but imperfect.
Love is ruthless, and cut-throat.
Love will burn you to the very last core of your being because you cannot contain its power.
Love is not lies, deceit, untruths, stories told to the naieve because you cannot be a lover and have to be a storyteller.
Love is truth, truth that so bitterly hurts, that you want to be porcelain and break into a million pieces, from the chest .
Love is walking, talking, and laughing, always laughing; love is a smile on a face.
Love is hard, and intolerable, it is passionate, and persistent and it is consistent. It does not break, it is not flimsly like a kite in a storm.
Love does not take offence to personal battles and rebukes of deadly warfare.
Love does not change its mind, be unsure, lack responsbility, or drinks you dry, til you are dried out and up.
Love is not ***, love is not lust, lust is not 'go on, you know you want to', love is not sorry in the morning.
Love is not the ***** all night *** sessions that keep the neighbours awake, but it is in the glory of two bodies where love can be found.
Love condemns. Love is a silent recommendation from Disney, Cathy and Heathcliffe, and Ring of BrightWater.
Love is a minefield and a forbidden playground; it is a secret garden and a theme park.
Love is not alone, and it is not together; it is not your children, or your childrens, children; It is within them and without them.
Love is not to be found on the praying may, in the clouds, in a the pew, or in the incense.
Love cries, love wails, love beats at your very chest, love is in death, love is in the birth.
Aaah, hmmm, Love, is an indeterminable force, by which, because of its very nature, no-one can define by logic, except that they will, because, what they cannot understand, they use perception of their blinded sight, deaf ears, and lost senses to put into words, something their heart cannot.
You have everything and you have no-one.
You have reason and you have none to be afraid of.
You are your past, and unfortunately, you are not.
You are your damage, your hurt and your pain, and hardest, your own responsibility.
You are worthy, and you are worthless, you have been shamed and you have been glorified.
You are your own future, your own today, and the yesterday.
And despite all the crap ******* memes,
Love is you, and you are love.

By 32, i had learnt to love myself. Inbetween the grieving, there is a silent knowledge, that by 32 i am in love, with myself.

*I wrote this as a very open outpouring of grief i am currently going through, and also an open realisation of the love within and for myself. It is one of my most open and explicit short stories of my life, and even within that there is lots that has not been recognised, because it has been shortened and reconsidered somewhere else. Thank you
Jan 2014 · 469
Look out
You're one of the lucky ones,
built for the future.
Gardening in the forest of Eden,
and harvesting love.

You see i am too unfortunate to love,
I'm too impetuous and addictive, for you.
You're becoming Icarus,
And i become the Sun.

So as i lay there like the sky,
I see the clouds of forever rolling on by.
I replace my flowers with seeds of grass,
for your love to last.

I am too unfortunate to love,
I can't be there to be understood.
So hold my hand my love, my guardian, my key,
and you'll find out what you can't see.
Jan 2014 · 3.1k
The Rollercoaster
Stormy rain, stormy Eyes.
Look at me.
Wish you had of died.
A fairground trick, you never rang the hoop around.
The fairground ride,  you could see the nuts and bolts.
But still you whooped with me.
There was a time,
at the beginning of the line,
where you begged me for a kiss,
for a moment of bliss,
before the fear set in;
before the terror unfolded,
and i was screaming and opening my eyes,
and looking forward,
and never at you.
I smiled for the camera,
to capture the moment,
of unequivocal bliss, of falling and riding high again.
Still you swore you would hold my hand,
for whatever we had planned,
and when i let go,
you looked at those lines,
and realised,
boy, you're in this world alone,
to ride the ride,
with me by your side,
but alone in your seat;
So what is it?
Ultimate bliss,
terror of self-defeat?

Just remember,
I was there,
just a hairtip away,
just a fingertip, from your fray,
when you start to unravel,
from me.

As we swoop,
as we fold,
as we argue through your childhood behaviour,

Line up, line up.
The ride is free.
The journey is finali-ty
when you are riding,
with me.
Dec 2013 · 1.0k
My Claim
Each day is given to me.
I take it,
the meds smooth it,
the collision impact tween
car and life,
a different kind of hangover,
is "written off,"
through irony delicious,
by writing.

it is not strange,
it is not unusual,
that clarity obtained,
afforded, by the

I am stained,
a stained glass window,
the early light coming through,
illuminated and repairs,
enlightens and softens,
renews, both me and
the floor's cold stone slabs,
where my knees
touch the ground,
confirm to me
I am well,

I do not run.
there is
no compulsion,
no need,
for the direction is
clearer now,
the signs point forward,
this way,
exit the roundabout smoothly,
on my way to my centre.

*Words i wrote in a way that someone majestically rewrote for Me - such a pleasure
I became the bottom of a shoe. Worthless, unwarranted, but there, needed.
Rubber and worn, worn away to the thinnest part, and still used.
Hands became words, and hugs became extinct, tears became invisible, the 'childhood' was erased.
Diabetes became my mother, known as rejection, and depression, her twin, known as rage.
Insulin and Fluoxetine became my equally demanding toddlers; I was feeding a family of 6 at the age of 8.
I watched my brother become a tortured child, in his sleep - the sound of his waterproof sheets would keep me awake, as i lay worried that his screams were words he could not utter at his age.
I watched my sister grow cold as she watch her house burning down around her, and crying tears at the loss of her childhood, her eyes burned at me.
As i looked in the mirror, when i cried,  i would flush the toilet just to hear what it feels like to be washed away.
Disappeared down the drain.
I shrunk 4 inches in 4 years, one inch for each bottle of poison, that said 'drink me'.
I shrunk 4 inches in another 4 years for every word that said 'eat me'.
I shrunk so that I could not grow, up.
Later still.
I became broken, hard to 'fix'.
I became lost, without a cause.
I became the rebel, odd-one-out.
Family grew fractured, broken mirrors lay on all our floors, that we skirted around, lest we should bled it all out, what had happened.
Relationships broke, one after another, after, another, after, another, after....
Faces lost feeling, words became laws, feelings became problems, love became, raw and unused.
We dissipated, dissolved, into a million pieces of broken, into the world, held together by very thin words of 'family'
I am not a child anymore.
It's time to be heard.
Dec 2013 · 1.1k
The Ego at its very best.
Never have I felt so devastated as how one person,
a man,
can treat someone,
a woman,
so violently;
in words,
by intended isolation,
by the very desecration of her womanhood,
by mirth of her infallibility,
by the devastation of her entire embodiment of life,
to be his 'perfect',
to be 'his'.
It is pretty clear that when 'NO' is screamed, from my lips,
it falls on deaf ears,
blind eyes can't see the fear in my face,
hard calloused hands can't feel my sensitive skin tremble and bruise.
What man cannot have,
the man will take what he wants anyway.
The Ego is a terrible, horrific, devastating manifestation of self, onto another.
Dec 2013 · 766
To die for love
To be so in love with life,
With you, and then the only You;
Love is to die,
I grieve,
Only to find rebirth,
In learning, I died for, Love,

Within you,
My love, becomes immortalized,
And becomes the unwavering flame of remembrance,
And repentance,
Of the battles I fight, and fought,
And die/d,
Your love.

And still I soldier on.
To die for your love,
Is the most majestic honourable death,
I could ever imagine and crave.
Dec 2013 · 3.8k
If I must desire
Go quickly, turn the radio up, for the classics.
I want to hear the Aria, and the sweep of the violin and the thud of the cello.
Desire it, for me, so such that my heart beats and sways with the music.
Pull black lace around my shoulders,
and tie my hair up in knots and curl, should that be my desire.
Read sections of Elliot, Ghibran, and Cohello to me by candlelight, barely are our knees yet to be touched,
and I can hear the sound your lungs make in the pauses between the lines,
trying to understand, the very moment of clarity, the writer, concedes to the reader.
Allow my voice to be heard amongst the depth of the inclement music,
despite how quiet it may seem in, that, moment.
Do not call me by my name, I should not desire it, even if for a moment;
it tastes like absinthe, without the sugar, and is bitter and intoxicating and raw on the tongue
and that it would no longer be my desire, but yours.
If I should desire it, I want you to be sure of yourself;
I want your heart to pulse so loudly, it is the only sound you hear,
and your mind becomes unconscious to my form, only my forceful presence.
Tie me up, in *******; bind my feet, my arms, and my *******;
use wax, and chains, and leather.
Be afraid, be very afraid, to  love me like this.
Place your palm on my back and hold me, like, this.
Be a wall I can cling to, feel my desire for my nails claw at your fascia, at your concrete chest,
let me make my mark in you, and you will feel, good, very oh, so, good about that.
Be slightly nervous, by my desires, but oh so tense and excited.
I want you wanton and willing, but I desire you hesitant and forbidden.
I am the labyrinth, I am a woman, I was not built to be understood;
but bring me ***, bring me braces, bring me your rough delicate touch,
and you will see i was built for Desire.
If I must, I must desire to be enjoyed and entertained, I want you to make me smile, yes, you.
To do this, is akin to going to battle and i want to see you are ready to go to war for this very simple desirable quest.
Feel the stockings on my legs and deem them available to be held between your fingers.
But not yet.
Desire, if it must be met, must be met by me through me, by you.
If I must desire, You must desire it, too
Nov 2013 · 1.4k
Before it dies
I see people writing poem after poem on here,
and i wonder,
did you write them all by candlelight, and save them up for when you found your audience?
Or did you sit and get drunk and write them whilst smoking cigarettes, and crying,
all over the keyboard.
Or was it a carefully, logically, formatted feeling that you had to edit, to, get, it just, right?
I wonder if you know what you are saying.
If you know that your infinitesimal pieces of work, are akin to a 16yr old's journal from circa 1984?
That if you could read it from this angle, or that angle, it could mean one or two things, and i am sure that you meant neither of them.
And i am thinking, that if i could i would throw away the internet and its black hole, that we all get ****** into,
I would give you one gold plated pen with black writing ink,
and a limited supply of scrolls of parchment made by sunlight and cotton;
because i wonder whether you would be so flippant with your words,
your feelings,
your punches,
your understanding,
your emotions,
your reflection,
your heart.
Because this makes us quicker, faster, harder, stronger.;
holding out for a white page to fill with words,
for lightening bolts of appreciation.
Is this not the cycle you wish to escape my love?
Was this not what you wanted?
Did you not want him to walk away?
Did you not want her to cheat?
Did you want them to fight, see you more clearly, understand you better, expect a little bit more respect, demand a little bit more attention, more patience, loving acceptance, a mutual respect?
What are you doing with these words, that you throw down like a gauntlet?!
Like you throw down venomous poison that you are trying to rid from your body, out from your curs-ed mouth, through your fingers, on to a keyboard, and out in to a a-nomy-nous world.
I wonder if you think of these things as you listen to love songs, driving in the rain, in the dark, suffocating on tears?
Do they fester in your head all day as you serve self-righteous morons who have no idea of your tortuous pain?
Do you lightly tread, whilst someone is sleeping in your bed, to the keyboard and type out how much you love them, and how much you are in love, alone, to the monitor, to nameless faces.
Do you have a soap box? Have you hammered on the desk in the rising light of your passion and dignity, and justice for all, in the name of love?
Have you wrote a letter lately?
When was the last time you held a pen for more than a few seconds?
When was the last time you cried into the ink, sprayed it with perfume, or S.I.W.A.L.K?
Or told someone you loved them with a million reasons why, with your own voice, into their eyes, to their face?

I just wonder, how much these words are worth, if we don't say them,
out loud.
You told me you loved me,
a cursed lie from the cracked dead lips of a dead one.
You see your words are rotten and putrid,
flys around me like decayed flesh down to my very bones.
Consumed I am now the living dead,
my eyes are blind, my desire is you,
and nothing will stop me til i taste you.
You told me you loved me,
from eyes that are old and weary.
Seen things they shouldn't have,
they are blind to the living.
Exceptional delusional deceiving wonders of light,
in the darkest deepest most terrible night.
You tell me you love me,
from areas of your body you knew never existed before.
I am black and blue from arms that never held me,
from the *** we never had.
I am consummated by love and death,
my virginity laid within your lifeless, blistered hands.
You told me you loved me,
and there are flames in your words.
They lick the very part of me, like paper, i am ash,
Falling through my own fingers, I am death known,
and to myself i wonder, this is really love?
As i watch love destroyed by love.
This is me, Rachael.
I would die from a papercut and blame it on the finger.
I would argue with an eraser if the words didn't look right.
I would tell the moon to shine all day just to ******* the sun.
I see colours in my imagination; my dreams are wild and beyond comparison.
I tend to love too hard and quickly get burnt by the one I flew so high for.
I read too much and believe in past lives.
I forgive but don't forget.
My trust is willing but protects my heart like a guardian of fate.
I will be silent when someone talks ****, because I don't take fools gladly, and a wise man never responds to defecation of verbal ignorance.
I willingly argue my point in my head til you know I have analysed my response.
Nothing is taken lightly.
I would argue that the road is really hard and quite weary, and curse my boots as they hit the hallowed ground.
I am impetuous, I rush in, I seek thrill and danger.
Hedonism is my game; I play deftly with an air of mastery.
I am sensitive. As skin is to the weather. A gust of harsh wind could ******* away.
This is me; only a slight composition of who I am, and what I am made of.
And I make no apology.
Nov 2013 · 1.6k
The War
I didn't expect such an eloquent piece of work to slip from your mouth,
An amazing set of words put together as intricate an atom bomb,
Or as an improvised explosive device, so i see,
Thus I must be careful where i tread my glass slippered feet,
and be aware of what breath of words expels from my lips.

I never expected such a skill set of destruction and warfare,
From a beautiful mouth, so deceptive, that it almost seems,
you are an undercover lover,
both beneath the sheets, and between distinguished conversations,
regarding such tentative ideals of love and the ambiguity of trust.

A terrorist it seems amongst the ranks with a finger on the trigger,
with a finger on my lips, and a whisper hush in my ear.
It seems i was blind to your type of sweet deception;
There are codes i didn't understand, and my mind was melting,
from the heat of your touch and the sublime twist of your hips.

I can see your eyes ready to deploy a subterfuge of promises,
as they look into the distance calculating the logistics,
of this moonlight illicit flit of passion;
Never did i expect such an eloquent transpose of intentions,
Even remarkably as this feels like the Romeo and Juliette of modern times.

I am the 'x marks the spot' in no-mans-land it seems,
I am the calm after the storm in the aftermath of your expostulation,
You, my love, are a sublime soldier in this battlefield we call 'togetherness'.
No-one asked you to go to this infernal devastating war;
Yet i long for your return from the eternal, internal battle,
you fight between your heart and your head.
Nov 2013 · 2.1k
For, love.
I love you like i loved you, like the sun burns the sky and is a torch for those who are lost and alone and depressed. I love you like i would carve it into a tree, to live forever with the sky and the lovers that pass, lying underneath in the grass; i love you like i would carve it deep into my forearm as though it would scar my skin and i would have it forever lain in front of me. I love you like the ocean feels the sand, and moulds a new earth each time it moves, silently strong and forceful in its journey to meet the shore. I love you like i have lost a thousand hearts and found one in the aftermath of joyous destruction and creation of myself.

I love you like a wall clings to the cold, as i cling to the cold wall, as the wall stands strong and upright and strangely comforting in its form. I love you like i loved you, before the moon rose from the forest, and the sun went to bed in the desert, and each day was renewed at the same time it was ending. I love you like the music that never stops but gives me a ferocious appetite for passionate forever afters, and fairytales of magnificent lust, loss, betrayal and denial, and finally the happy ending. I love you like the birds love the sky, how the wings feel the freedom in flight, how the flap of a wing creates an invisible echo through the invisible air.

I loved you like i loved the scent of the forest after the rain, after the time had stopped and started again, and there was a moment in all of the moments, where i could see the drop of rain die upon the ground and begin again in the earth. I love you like i lost you; an old penny from my purse, an old reciept for that thing i wanted to return but never did, like my mind that runs from the heart that beats inside of me for you. I love you as i love the old time western movies, I love you like i love the good times from my childhood, innocent and happy, i love you as i remember those things i had forgot in forgetting the bad times.

I love you like the grass that lives on despite what horrid beings we are in the way we trample over it with no respect for its grace of being alive for us, and has withstood the test of time to be here. I love you like i loved you, like the stars internally combust to be born, a black firework that no-one can see, hear, feel, touch or sense, like the dried coffee cup laid out to be cleaned with remnants that you were 'here'. I love you like i love words, I love you like i love the meaning in the verb, the noun, the alliteration, the juxtaposition, the allegory of sea faring tales of pursuit, courage and defiance and success.

I love you like i love you. I love you like i expect to love you. I love you from my mistakes, my pride, my egoism, my negative voices, my shaking hands, my pain. I love you from my freedom of loving you, from the cartwheel, candy floss, on-the-edge of the world, 'hold on to your pants', rollercoaster, anticipation of unspoken words, the promising anticipated kiss and the touch from your skin to mine, kind of once-in-a-lifetime, love.

I loved you like i love you, like i love you, like i loved you.
For all these reasons are unknown and known and forgotten and remembered,
I love you, with every cigarette stained breath, from every sip of *****, from every regretful one night stand.
I love you, from the ink stained fingers of writing forget me not, from the abundance of joy in my heart, and the exploding passion in my volcanic mind, and from the look in my wise deserving eyes.

I loved you, for loving you, for loving's sake, and for you, for me and for, love.
Nov 2013 · 662
I have been away.
I have been away for a long, long time.
There are things to finish, that i never started,
that i never even planned for,
but it's there.
I have been lost,
I have been lost, for a long, long time.
There are things to find, that were never lost,
that i never even knew existed.
I have been complacent,
I have been complacent, because i didn't have to be,
that i never expected,
that have been waiting for.
I have been loving,
I have been loving, even when it wasn't warranted.
There was love without love,
that has been devastated and ruined.
Nov 2013 · 1.4k
Dear John letter....
Dear John,
There are things about my life,
that are not understood,
not by me,
not by anyone.
It's the emergency room on a tsumani night,
It's the silent room after surgery failed,
It's the silence in the dark after everyone has gone to bed.
It is not the calm after the storm,
It is the wreckage in the aftermath,
It is the middle of the tornado.
I am the bandit on the highway of love,
I am the runaway bride from hell,
I am the scared, the fear, the innocent child.
Dear John,
I am the carer in the giver,
and I want to give you all i can give,
I want to give you all that life can give,
But i need to give myself air to breathe,
like a fine red wine,
that i would down like it was moonshine.
Dear John,
I am the old oak tree faltering in the breeze,
I am the wheat sheaf, tall and ready to be cut down,
I am the end of the beginning.
But i feel you and it feels me,
and i am so involved but so distant,
I am blue and i am black,
but yet i am bright and i am shiny.
Dear John,
Please be the ***** socks on my bedroom floor,
Please be the voice that tells me to stop using the hot water,
Please be the cup that doth runneth over.
This and that, this and that, this and that.
Dear John,
be the moisturizer on my skin,
be the sublime and the settled,
be the heaven and show me the light there.
I wish i could peel off my skin,
and let you all in,
and see the beauty beneath and my wonderous treasures within.
Dear John,
don't give up,
I am here,
though i am not.
Nov 2013 · 1.7k
The lumberjack and I.
Taken by my hand,
warped and aged with time,
rings and rings of life, ingrained beneath my skin,
you hold me with ease,
and, I unravel with gravity, falling apart.
I bend and lean with the wind,
a slight breeze from you,
is enough to shake me from the ground,
to the sky,
and everything is naked,
and everything is the truth,
and i stand here, before you,
as you hold an axe in your hands.
Ready to fell me,
and take me apart.
My roots are old,
my heart is protected with years of warped timber,
my heart is protected as peach pit,
my heart is protected with poison ivy.
Yet in the spring i blossom,
In the summer i shine bright as the very sun,
And in the autumn i renew myself,
ready to ride the winter's harsh code.
You take me within your grasp,
I am a cold wind,
I am a summers breeze;
I am the very essence of life within you,
within me.
As you come to me, and take me,
And take me apart,
I am ready to go,
I am ready to be burnt by the fire,
and become the earth again.
So come at me,
but be warned I stand tall,
and built strong,
but beneath the outer layers,
I am truly a phenomenal piece of work,
given from the universe,
to you.
Bring your axe,
Bring your rough hands,
Bring your words.
I am rejuvenated by you.
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