the words and cluttered memories
swirled about her head
laughing as she tried to stack them up
the thoughts jumped out of boxes
the pictures off of shelves
leaving her stuck, stuck, stuck

to what degree is wrong
if it’s right in another’s eyes?
how selfish must you be before
it doesn’t take you by surprise?
and should you still pursue the wind
if you know you should not follow?
or leave someone in helplessness
if you will not care tomorrow?

the indent grows bigger
my bones start to creak
I’ll take a break for all of this to mend
ideas keep on flowing
it’s an effort for me
to close the book and just put down the pen

plot the points you’ll use to find
the place you want to be
draw the map and draw the line
from point A to point B
you’re an architect, your buildings scrape
the skyline of your dreams
looking down from far away
proves them lower than they seem
but pack your bag of memories
and old things you once loved
and hold them tight so they’ll survive
the journey to above
you are a kite, just moving where
the light breeze takes you to
never stronger than you never were
as paper dreams guide you through

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.

there's a dimly lit room and hushed speaking
floorboards creaking
vapid stares of dreamers who are dreaming
ideas seeming
to be painted on to canvases unending
future pending
while my dreams only fit inside my pocket
and I lock it.

hold my hand, and we'll make the leap together
arms out wide, and we'll sail through stormy weather
minds are open, and we'll leave our blue world spinning
hearts are open, and the sky's just the beginning

heavy eyelids and fading lights
lead the path into the night
limbs are curling and head lies down
now you’re dreaming, can’t turn round
but morning comes - sun shines though cracks
eyes have opened, can’t go back
you hate to leave the land you yearn
now awake, wait to return

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

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.

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…

tambourines and yellow pages
that’s all that I want to be
old six strings and lit up stages
are all that I want to see
a pencil and a photograph
with them, I will be free
to take a brush and paint the path
towards the life I wish to lead

left or right?
up or down?
front or back?
smile or frown?
tell me what to do - please, I implore you
flip up the coin - let Lincoln choose it for you
start to end?
end to start?
listen to my head?
or listen to my heart?

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

to grasp on to the intangible truth
was beyond me
for that, I chose to remain aloof
to be lonely
but, see, wishes aren’t just for shooting stars
that, I now know
the only way to move from where you are
is simply: to go

I'll paste into the future plan
places I must go
sights I'll see, things to be heard
knowledge I must know
then I"ll frame up my collage
and hang it on my wall
I'll then look at it every day
and pretend I've done it all

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

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 know you’ll hold her hand
whenever she is sad
and kiss her cheeks to dry away the tears
and I know you’ll take her tight
and tell her everything is grand
and wait with her until her head is clear

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

sometimes life comes at you fast
and sometimes it comes at you slow
sometimes it will hit at you hard
when it will, we’ll never know
but we’ll put on the play, use the whole stage
and make the most out of the show