How many people know you?
Know how many times you roll up
   the cuffs of your sleeves when it’s warm?
Or know how many sugars
   you take in your tea?
Or how you handle yellow bees?  
How many people know what
   you tell yourself before you go to sleep?
Do you count sheep?
Or the stars on your ceiling?  
Or your scars that are healing?
Do people know you have those?
Nobody knows.

How many people know you?
Know how much you resent the gap
   between your teeth?
Or what number you group things in
   when you’re counting?
Or what the smile on each side
   of your face means?
Or where to find the seams
Where you’ve been torn open
   just a bit.
Where those little slits
   under your raised eyebrow are.
Do people look hard?

How many people know you?  
Know about how much having dirt under
   your fingernails drives you mad?
Or how you don’t like to
   drive in the rain?
And how you add brown sugar
   to everything?
And how you wish you had wings
To fly away over all these people
   who think they know you
When they don’t.
They don’t know the first thing.
But they never will.
You won’t let them in.

How many people know you?
Sometimes,

I
certainly
don’t.

When I wake up in the morning
When I open my eyes
   for the first time in the day,
I am orange.
Like the moments between blinks
   and the glow on the horizon
   and my unkept hair
sitting whispy on my head.
As I get out of bed,
I am orange.

When I am walking down the road
As I’m passing people I don’t know
   and who don’t know me,
I am purple.
Like the bright darkness of possibility
   that we all can’t see yet
   and the faded fabric of mens’ jackets
which I’ll never wear.
When I’m walking there,
I am purple.

When I’m sitting beside him
With our knees touching
   under the table,
I am red.
Like the table cloth I picked out special
   and the apples on the counter
   and the blood that’s rushing
too fast between my ears.
When I’m sitting here,
I am red.

But when I’m sitting by myself,
Alone in my room
   calm and quiet,
I am blue.
Like the song that is playing
   and the rain keeping time
   and the glow from the computer screen
where I try not to live my life
but to which I’m prone.
When I’m alone,
I am blue.

It’s a real shame
that blue is my
favourite
colour

I’m sorry that I’m broken,
that I’m sprawled out on the floor
that I’m crumpling into pieces
as you open up my door.
I’m sorry that I'm broken,
that I leave trails wherever I go
and that I never tell you how I feel
so how I am you never know.
I’m sorry that I’m broken,
that I always am unkept
and I’m sorry for those long nights
for me that you have wept.
I’m sorry that I’m broken,
that I’m never in ‘good health’
but I want you to know, I’ll be okay -
I’m trying to fix myself.

I want to be a part of you.
A part of you you miss
when it’s raining
   and all you want is to
   feel my heat under the blankets,
or when you’re driving
   with the windows down
   pretending to be in a music video,
and when it’s night time
   and counting all the stars is
   impossible without me there.
I just want to be a part of you,
Like you are of me.

The little lady in the
pink jacket and strappy shoes
passed a man who’s
outfit, she thought,
cost less than her new handbag.
She scoffed.

The tall man in
his father’s good jacket
passed a lady who’s
tight dress, he guessed,
took too long to put on.
He shook his head.

They looked at each other.
Briefly.
Then looked away.

The man who watched them
for the other side of the shop window
reckoned he’d write a love song about them.

Stretched out
   in your Sunday morning way
with your mouth
slightly open
and your hands, together,
curled up by your jaw,
you look like
   the best thing
   that has happened to me.

I want to be the quiet girl
   who every boy falls in love with.
I want my sideways smile
   to steal the hearts
   of anyone who steals a glance
   at it from the side.
I want to be fragile,
   so that people want to
   take care of me
   as soon as they see me
   with my knees curled up
   on a chair that is too big.
I want to be the stuff of novels,
   and of films,
   and of love songs
   whose melodies are
   picked out on a guitar.
I want the idea of me
   to be so delicate
   and so alluring
   that I’ll never have to worry
   about being hurt.
I want to be a beautiful
   heart breaker -
   the one that they tell their
   brothers, mothers, and sons about.
I want to be
   what they describe as
   the best thing that ever happened
   to them.
I want to be
I want to be
I want to be all the things I’m not.

I have a question.
When you see your reflection
in my eyes,
do you see yourself
as you see yourself?
Or do you see yourself
as I see you?
Either way,
please stay so that I can
figure out my answer
to the same question.

My head is a picture book novel.
   The words and images my mind’s
   camera collects every day
   have been shaping me
   since I’ve been very small,
   so that I use phrases from books
   I read when I was three,  
   and I cry at songs
   that are meant to be happy.
   My actions are reactions
   I’ve learned to use
   from watching my parents talk
   on the phone
   or from a clip of a movie
   I scrolled past while surfing channels,
   or hearing lyrics on the radio
   that tried to make a point.
My head is a picture book novel,
but sometimes, even I skim
past the words.

My heart is a palette of colours.
   Every person I’ve come across
   has made their mark -
   be it the sloppy spattering of indigo
   from the girl I bumped into in the hall,
   or the delicate transition
   from amber to scarlet
   from him with his uneven smile.
   I’d like to think that
   I leave everyone’s heart
   more beautiful than I found it,
   but I know that that’s not true.
   I know that sometimes
   I forget to apologize,
   so I never remove the stains
   of grey and charcoal
   that I perhaps didn’t accidentally leave.
   Maybe in my quest to be a
   better person, I should try
   to remember to paint over
   work I wouldn’t want myself
   to be remembered by.
My heart is a palette of colours.
But right now, I wouldn’t
hang myself on a wall.

There is a time
and place
for everything.

You may not
feel like
the top of
a mountain now,
but that is
alright.
You can feel
   like the dried line
   on the inside
   of your coffee cup.
You can feel
   like the leftover
   crumbs
   on the floor.
You can even feel
   like the rain must feel
   on a day
   the world wants sun,
but do not reduce yourself
   to the cobwebs
   in the corners
because you feel so.

For even if you don’t feel like
   the first ray
   of sunshine
   in the morning,
or feel like
   the comfiest cushion
   on your mum’s
   couch,
or even feel like
   your favourite character
   from your
   favourite book,
remember that
you would not know
   happiness
if you did not know
   sadness.

There is a time
and place
for everything.
Do not worry if your’s
is not now.

Count the times
that you feel fine,
and hang them on
a long wire line,
and hang that wire
above your bed
right above
your resting head,
and watch those
memories you keep
help you calm
yourself to sleep,
and remind you
when your day’s not bright
that your world is filled
with small bright lights.

The world is not a paper crane.
It’s soggy streets
and pouring rain,
rapping dreary melodies
on your window pane.
It’s side roads
and alley ways,
numb fingers
ripping sellotape
trying to put together broken things.
The world is not a paper crane.
But it’s the smell of grass
on sunny days
and matching china
cups and plates.
It’s warm blankets
round the fire place,
eagles souring
through the great escape
the day it finds its wings.

I’m collecting memories
Every time the noon bell rings,
I stop to see who’s listening.
Perhaps the melody is nostalgia
for them as well.

I’m collecting memories.
There is a boy who
cannot see who crosses the road
at nine forty seven every morning.
He trusts strangers better
than I ever will.

I’m collecting memories.*
Sometimes I am sitting in a room
with the people I call my friends
when they laugh at a joke
I don’t understand.
That doesn’t mean they love me
any less.

I’m collecting memories.
You occasionally push
your hair off of your face,
and I don’t know why
it makes me melt.

I’m collecting memories.
The other night, I looked up
and was startled. I forgot
that there were so many stars.
I wanted to lie down on the pavement
and look up until I fell asleep.

I’m collecting memories
It’s very lovely to watch
two people smile at each other.
It reminds me that
things will be okay.

They say it’s beautiful
   this sadness that she keeps
but she thinks about it,
   and that can’t be true.
They want to paint her.
   They want to write wordy poems
about her canvas coloured
   a thousand shades of blue.
They call her the sea.
   They call her a storm.
They try to wrap her up
   in neat metaphors.
And they feel so sorry for her,
   yet they spend long nights
wishing it was them
   who everyone adored.
She spends the time counting
   minutes left in the hour.
They spend the time counting
   the rungs of the scarlet ladders on her wrists.
They write stories about
   the golden boys who come and save her
The boys she wished
   she never kissed.
And they applaud
   the times she really laughs.
And she hates the way
   that tastes -
like a spoiled, sour reminder
   in the back of her throat
telling the world she
   was sick in the first place.
And they say it’s beautiful
   the sadness she’s drowning in
and they’d rather write stories about it
   than throw her a rope.
And all she can think about
   is how ugly it all is
as she fights to keep from sinking
   and tries not to choke.

hesitations, good vibrations
and the sound can’t make you fall
on life they’re choking, heart is broken
but the music saved them all

her child mind turned everything into a game
she’d find it was magic, dancing in the rain
and she’d think how fun it was to disappear
the glass clinked, and it was music to her ears

her heart was heavy
with hope of going places
until it wasn’t

a happy little bumblebee, flew smiling to and fro
the gardener who never quit, he made the flowers grow
his work impressed his happiness, the harder that he tried
he was the best until one day, he stung a squirrel and died

the day she outgrew her yellow shoes
was the day her mother said not to cry
was the day she learned she’d never fly
was the day she learned of real goodbyes
the day she outgrew her yellow shoes

her thoughts were old wheelbarrows
too full and broken down
from over use and old abuse
which wrinkled up her frown
yet they wheeled around in circles
and made her temples burn
she closed her eyes and her weary mind
lay cold and overturned

raindrops and old pages
our hearts in our rib cages
connect us all - we know it’s true
each person is a person, too

crates of dreams and apple seeds
were shipped right to my mind
I planted them, and they grew tall
and through them, hope did shine
they took me to a higher place
from there my life unfurled
with them I climbed so high I flew
and I could hold the world

over thinking leads to sinking
just relaxing floats your boat
there’s no success brewed from great stress
clear your mind to stay afloat.

we let our voices grow
and the sound swells around us
through the music we know
that the magic has found us.

the wind sat still,
like a guitar
unplayed.
while the trees
sighed in the warmth
of the day.
the hazy ground
glowed bronze
with the heat.
and the children all
sank quiet in
defeat.
nothing was friendly
about that
midsummer’s day.
no one wanted more
than for the sky
to turn grey.
but the sun just
pounded on the
drum of the earth.
and the children cried
for winter, and the cold
that they deserved.

her reflection whispered back at her
though clenched teeth and tight jaw
“you never will be good enough”
then picked out every flaw
she cried at her reflection
who she knew was always right
then she cried at herself again
slept another sleepless night

all these things leave me sure
that I’m nostalgic for the future
for all the places I’ve never been
and all the things yet to be seen
but all these thoughts are so unfair
because I just don’t know how to get there…

when I begin to think,
I get lost in the vast expanse
of nothing and everything.
I am weighted with the reality
that I am virtually nothing.
and I am terrified

windy whirrs, flying birds
darkened lights, clouded nights
whiter snow, seeds that grow
growing sound, world spins round

regret drew a paper thin line
which he couldn’t help but cross.
though, he took plenty of time
so original intentions were lost.
his words were short and stammered
he couldn’t help them if he tried
and his swollen heart quickly hammered
until his tears ran dry

the wind whispered to the
sun, “do you love me?” as
she blew a soft breeze
through the trees,
tickling the rose petals
and soothing the grass.
but the sun remained silent
though, lazily melting away
all that he could.
thus the wind set out
in a rage, crashing against
branches and shattering
the fragile windows
while fat tears rolled
from the sky and
drowned the Earth.
the impatient wind sighed,
waiting for a word from
the sun, who appeared
back in his place, as soon as
the wind stopped her crying.
She smiled and whispered
to the sun, “do you love me?”
as the heat dripped slowly on.

all through the autumn,
she waited for the warm
she sat in dusty candle light
though the cold and hazy storms.
all through the winter,
she waited for the heat
she was buried under pillows
as she hid inside her sheets.
all through the spring time
she waited for the dry
she danced inside her music box
to the raindrops from outside.
and when the summer rolled around,
when the sky shone bright and blue
she scratched her head and rubbed her eyes
not knowing what to do.

stitching and mending
repairing my ending
so I don’t rip at the seams
stitches and stitches
and then the past switches
it shines down like yellow sunbeams

every wrinkle in your forehead
every crease in your hand
has made you the person
I attempt to understand.
every scuff on your shoe and
every stain on your sleeve
has made you the person
I attempt to believe.

a mile a minute
a smile begins it
and before I know it,
I’m off of my feet
then when I am dependent
your smile will end it
and before I know it,
I’m admitting defeat

I turned back the clock to
trick myself into thinking I
had stopped time
but the clock wound on and
time crawled regardless of
this heart of mine

eyes they water, stomach flips
thoughts are hazy, spirit trips
I grind my teeth, I clench my fists
forget to smile, forget my wish

thinking thinking
never got better
thinking thinking
could have been worse
thinking thinking
a blue woolen sweater
thinking thinking
a matching red purse

a dimpled smile,
a sideways grin
we sit a while,
all folded in
to paper cranes
that fly quickly
I’ll fly away
and you’ll fly with me

I prance about my bedroom floor
I wish I could go back for more
for another moment I’ll adore
and see what future lies in store
there is no way I can be bent
there is no reason to lament
for all the time that I have spent
has lead me to be quite content

golden note, golden note
be in my tune
take me through the galaxies
fly me to the moon
golden note, golden note
be in my song
forever keep me company
and play the whole night long

red, orange, yellow
an ordinary fellow
running through life
not savouring it all
green, blue, purple
just jumping over hurdles
he only keeps his chin up
to make sure he doesn’t fall

oh, what a day it has been!
the sky’s gone yellow, the sea green.
oh, what a night we will see!
and we’ll guess what the stars choose to be.
oh, what a wonderful life!
on the edge of a blunt copper knife.
oh, what a wonderful world!
from the tip of a blade that has curled.

count the raindrops
breathe the air
tread the water
let down your hair
bask in the sunlight
laugh and play
be free and happy
seize the day

she sponged up all of the new things
with the knowledge she had, she grew wings
she flew through the sky
left her old world behind
let the sound of her future ring

cast away the sorrow,
she did
stopped regretting the tomorrows.
her worries in a jar
the lid
locked tight with gold keys borrowed.

something from the outside
never looked so real
as something from the
inside ever will
yet this thing on the inside
was more than what it seemed
and that, I think
is even better still

dear you now,
he writes her a letter
he knows he'll never send it
but it makes everything better
dear you now,
she sits down and writes
she'll not know he did the same thing,
that great minds think alike

pretending that she was the rain,
she looked outside the window
to keep herself from staying sane,
she dreamed of couldn’t be’s
she laughed and pinned up in a row,
the rest of her tomorrows
but, she knew she’d never know,
so just stared out, wistfully

the blade of grass was folded into bits, and on it fits
all the days of life it’s ever had, bright or sad
all the moments that had ever been, ever green
all the lightness it had once been shown, had ever known
its simple life’s too much to understand - it’s too grand
as we wallow in our cosmic dreary minds.
all the time.