Seven billion people gathered, their names scribed in black and gold above one of four doors. Three billion, six hundred fifty eight million, nine hundred eighty seven thousand, two hundred seven over the first door, two billion, one hundred fifty eight  million, nine hundred forty seven million, five hundred sixty three, above the next, one billion, one hundred eighty two thousand, sixty five thousand, two hundred twenty nine, above the third.
My name was crudely scratched into the rickety shambles of the fourth. My name and my name only.
The people fade away as the door closes behind me, their laughter drifts from my ears, their faces begin to blur in my frail memory and then they are gone.
I am alone.

Truth be told, it was over before it started. The flowers bloomed and wilted before ever seeing sunlight, fire turned to ash without a moment as a flame, and the few fleeting moments left, were wasted on the recognition of this time passing. Life had come and gone and no one had lived. We took our first steps too late, missing the last car and fell down on the third rail.

I want to write poems
but the pencil won't move,
ill pick up a pen but that just fails too.
I reach for the old well with ink,
that just stains the page through,
it's not just writers block
it's poets pain too.

I am flawed,
I have failed, and I will fail again.
I am flawed in major ways and minor ways and yet the music is as persistently beautiful as the mountains in my dreams and the song can never fail.
Because my failures are mine, they are unique and they are new. My failures are condemned to never have a chance as repetitive falling climbers on those peaks for they will never take the same route twice.
I am free, my failures are free. hence the music is free. The music is pure, the music is blissfully unaware that it's growing beauty is rooted in the ashes of these failures.
And somewhere between the first failure and the last note I fell in love with it all.
Freedom, the beautiful music of mountaintop flowers, planted in the failed attempts of rock climbers ashes.
Freedom, such a beautiful failure.

I am a master of knots who could secure dreams to man and tie the deepest feelings of love round your heart in gentle bands.
But for all of my skill a chance never arose, to do more for this girl than write gentle prose.
If given a chance, I'd tie a noose round your pain and stitch your soul back together to bring you happiness again.
In blissful peace you may continue to roam but know for as long as I live it shall never be alone.

A while back I met a girl. No. I met “the girl”.
As the quote goes “To the world you may be one person but to one person you may be the world.” and that was it, she was my world.
Now before you go thinking that I’m just some love sick, idealistic, hopeless romantic teenager caught up in the beauty and wonder of his first love just think!
Actually don’t. Don’t think, don’t rationalize, don’t mull it over assuming and judging, just listen.
Because that is exactly what I am. I am a love sick, idealistic, hopeless romantic teenager.
I am head over heels for this girl. I am knees over elbows, I am elephants over tricycles!
She drove me crazy, actually I think I walked there all by myself but it was nice to finally have someone to share it with.
She was my friend and then she wasn’t my friend. She was more than my friend.
She was my friend, my teacher, my counselor, my idol, my source of instant joy in a world that had proven itself to be cruel and bitter at the worst of times.
She was that person that I could picture running down the streets in the pouring rain in shorts, a T-shirt and bright yellow gum boots handing out colourful umbrellas to people trying to stay dry. She was that one spark from a campfire that stayed brighter longer than all the others drifting up out of the flames into the dark sky
and just when you thought it was going to go out it joined the stars and became immortalized.
She was my love, my everything, my world.
And I didn’t love her for the big "look at me moments".
Its true what they say about loving someone for the little things.
I loved her for the whispered secrets and the quiet murmurs.
I loved her for the way she held my hand when I had to leave.
She had the softest grip but with all my strength I couldn’t break free.
I loved her for the way she looked at me when we danced around her kitchen in our socks laughing.
I loved her for the way she stood up on her tip toes making our kisses last just one second longer before our lips parted.
I loved her.
It didn't matter that I couldn't think when I was around her because her presence turned my brain to mush
because I was with her and that made everything else okay.

One day she stopped holding my hand when I had to go, we didn't dance in our socks anymore, she didn't stand on her tiptoes for kisses.
When she left me I told myself I would get over her and move on, that was over a year ago.
For a long time I wondered how I was going to live in a world where everything reminded me of her.
I  tried to date other people and failed miserably when my thoughts were filled with pictures of her. I struggled, my love for her tore me apart.
Eventually I began to live again, functioning with an acceptance that I may never be over her.

Today I met a girl.
No. I met "the girl", the same girl, the girl I had met over two years ago and today, she's my friend and I am still elephants over tricycles for her.