It is
a single blood-red rose,
Lounging in a field
of Sunday morning daisies.

It is
a venerable novel,
ripe with life and adventure.
Love splattered across the pages.
The binding,
begging and writhing to free the secrets
coddled between the lines.

It is
how your mother takes her coffee.
A little cream,
no sugar,
and the promise of
9 AM jitters.

It is
Expecting a hurricane,
only, having to recover
from a day in the sunlight.
  
It is
a tiny footprint in the sand,
a greasy fingerprint on a doorknob,
the intricacies of a fragile snowflake.

But above all,

It is
You.

Love kills my
                        brain cells,

but also,

               **ignorance is bliss

Making up stories, until to us they are the truth.

Bravery is being the only one who knows you're afraid.

Finding something on the road
And serving it for dinner
Buying dresses far too small
And thinking you look thinner
Solar powered submarines
Broken ribs or ruptured spleens
Driving cars and drinking beers
Lightbulb licking, bad ideas

Knowing where you shouldn't be
And being there despite
Going out in thunderstorms
To fly your iron kite
Sharing needles with a shark
Going to Mansfield after dark
Setting fire to someone's ears
Telemarketing, bad ideas

Not deploying gaffer-tape
When doing D.I.Y.
Believing the implausible
While branding truth a lie
Replying to Nigerian Princes
**** bleach and ******* rinses
Tabloid papers touting fears
Voting UKIP, bad ideas

Impersonating ******
Before nineteen forty-five
Catching a train on Sunday
And assuming you'll arrive
Turning lights on with your nose
Eating food that moves or glows
Listening to Britney Spears
Marmite Pringles, bad ideas

**