She is at the table
everything there is neat.
The cutlery all matches,
the conversation is warm
the exchanges are not passive
there are no knots here.

The family laughs,
ask questions and smile.
They mean what they say
there is no leaving it,
no denial.

I am on the outside looking in
glass, nicotine stain windows.
Peering into perfect families
perfect scenarios

My dining table.
The one we don't have.
Conversations never spoke
no one passing the salt
just rubbing it in scars  
trying not to choke

I dream I move out into the woods,
and it gives me the things the world never could.
I sit there, my man and I,
between the shadows of the trees,
far away from a world,
that never will be pleased.

The worries I have faced,
the troubles I've been through.
What brings me here,
doing the things I tell myself I must do.

All the crosses I have bared,
and the love that I have lost;
just because I've been scared.

All these rules, I tell myself I must live by,
are they the things that keep me lonely,
or are they the things that keep me alive?

There is a girl out in her garden,
shes taken off her shoes again.
She raises her head up to the sky,
just so she can feel the rain.

What worries have you faced,
what troubles you?
What brings you there,
doing the things you tell yourself you must do.

All the crosses you must have bared,
and the love that you have lost;
just because you've been scared.

All these rules, you tell yourself you must live by,
are they the things that keep you lonely,
or are they the things that keep you alive?

There is an old man down the way.
He likes to paint Poplar trees.
It's a curious thing though,
he only seems to paint them in three's.

What worries have you faced,
what troubles you?
What brings you there,
doing the things you tell yourself you must do.

All the crosses you must have bared,
and the love that you have lost;
just because you've been scared.

All these rules, you tell yourself you must live by,
are they the things that keep you lonely,
or are they the things that keep you alive?

I could do with some good.
A spoonful a day.

Like some warm honey down my throat.
Or just the lovely words you say.

Do they think of me in everyday things?
I think I like them the most.

Not in the poetry of Plath, or the writings of Hardy,
but in the mornings, when they butter their toast.

It's as quiet as a tide, that rolls in;

until it's up to your neck,
and you're out of breath.

It's a sacred as a blush on her cheek;

that's as red as a robins breast,
from a frost that crept in from the west.

It's as soft as the moon against the day sky;

so delicate in its hue,
so bygone in its view.

It aches, like a tree on an English moor;

that's been bent by the wind,
accustomed to its own suffering.

Ow,
time waits for no man, no man.
and no gipsy card will help you understand.

It's as quiet as a tide, that rolls in.

Until it's up to your neck,
and you're out of breath. Drownin.