Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather ****
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And **** his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy ***** driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
**** rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron ****’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’ middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white ******* hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds—slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘**** sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded copse
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ’sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
*** barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The *** beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers—May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking ***** to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen

When I was 12

I cut for the frist time I used this little
sharp thing that came in this manicure set
I don't know why I did it but I can remember
my hand hanging over the bathroom sink little drips of blood falling from me I staired in to space I can still feel that dead feeling
Latter that year I cut in front of my friend I did not think she was looking, she **** my hand and " oh my god, dude did you just make that happen?" I should be I shamed I would be now, but then I think I may have been proud, it got worst I cut everyday
mostly my hands. One day my older brother
asked what happen to my hands I said his cat had scratch me
a really bad lie cuz rocko would never hurt a fly,
and he new cuz he told my mom right there and then
Ma, I think she's cuting herself, I was so panic that I don't even remember what she said, but I did not stop
mouths later I think it was in Jan of 2001
I was at my sisters house and I must have had a scrach or scar showing
I reamber what she said, my hand are shaking tyeping it,
"Why are you cutting you're self little *******!, you know that bring the devil he likes that!, little did I know those would be that last words she ever said to me cuz she died in feb that same year
and know it's crazy but part of me will allways blame me and my cutting,
and i still think of her when I cut, I don't have to tell you that did not stop me,

whene I was 13

I don't think I cut much wich is do odd cuz it was the worst time in my life, insted I dressed like a ****, got drunk, talk back to my famliy and messed aroung with grown up guys,  and started writeing poetry
but I never cut.

Whene I was 14

god that was I really bad bad time I'm pretty shore I was crazy
I was convosed about my sexuality and gender,
i shaved my head started dressing as crazy as possibal maybe get ppl to look at me, maybe to scare them away I don't know.
but I cut, I cut I LOT! I can remember locking myself in the basement with my KORN and SLIPKNOT CDs turned up so load no one can hear my cry, I craved an anarcy symble in my lag, and fell asleep on the liveing room couch, my mom saw it and freaked out, she asked me if I was crazy?, gay?, if it hurt?, all I did was turn over and go back to sleep.

When I was 15

everyone just knew I was crazy, I cut be with the head to toe black
dog colers and books on the cruch of Satan no one really nodest, but I knew, it was takeing over my life, I had so meny cut on my arms that
ther was not a part of my skin that was not scabed red or swollen
but I did not stop.

When I was 16

I lot of things about me chanched at 16
but it was hard to say what they where
i remember one day I staired in the mirror so long
I could not stand mr face and more I was enraged
I was allwas sad, but now it was anger I did not want to see
any part of me or my life any more a hated it all so much
I tryed to blind me self, with narr hair remover, I put in to my eyes
it was the worst pain I ever felth, and when everything started to look gray I was scard and for the frist time sents my sisters death
I prayed to god not elfs or the vampire ruler
but god, and it stop the bruning the grayness stoped
and from that the I never said I did not believe in god, you can call me crazy, but I think I should'ev been blind.
but I never stoped cutting,
just mouths layer in the summer I can remember
being dressed like a latex dominatress, I craved the word nothing in my hand that word ment a lot to me it was my seventh name
I never thoght anyone nodest but when I came home one day
2 of my 3 brothers and my mom where waiting like an intervention
they asked me why?, what does it mean?, my father asked if I " really worship the devil?" I just said I do it cuz I'm crazy and never said anouther word,  but I did not stop cutting.

When I was 17

my life was sleep cutting and poetry and nothing more,
I lived in razor blades and notbooks, I can remember one day I had 2 cuts on my arm my uper arm, but I must have forgot cuz I did not
where a swater to the dinner table, my brother the same brother
that nodest when I was 12 got up in a rage and went in to the ketchen with my mom and was yelling at her " did you see the cuts?, did you see thies ******* cuts, he did not think I heard no one did but that mead my cry so hard, I'm and will allways protective of my mom, I hated that she was getting yelled at for something I did, but than she starting blameing everyone but me, I craved a heart in to my hand and she went if in my neice say "did you see her do this?"
now my cuting was everyone pain
but I did not stop

when I was 18

I did not cut as much but whene I did it was bad
I used broken glass it was my favoret, and I cut placeing
that never showed, when I  was dressed,
and I looked normle just like anyone els
nothing dark of freaky about me but if you saw me
naked I was a masacare
and I did not stop.

When I was 19

I had a hole deffrent feeling like nothing I did
was good enough, I'm not like everyone els my
age, I allwas had this thing where when ever u was outside
and someone laughed I thought it was about me
if they looked at me it was cuz I'm ugly
or just a freak, at this time it was worst
cuz I realize not much has chanched in my life.
I got my shoulder once I was one my computer
and my dad asked what happend I said I got cut when I was
moving things in my room all he said oh I thought
you where doing something weird, talk about being the last to know.

When I was 20

I only cut twice that year, And my mom seemed to think about it more that me but in a defforent way "what are you gunna do with those scars?"
shed allways say, still does no mans gonna wanna marry someone with
unexplainable scars on her body, I allways found that shallow
and cold but I did not completly stop cuting.

When I was 21

I had an inter deffrent soul or at lest a new mask
in lost wight, trund blond, for the longest time replaced
poetry with make up, try to perfect most ppl thought I was
even me, I was bublelie that girl who laughed really loud
with butterflys in my bedroom and boys on my cell phone
mirrors and make up, it kinda the new obession cuz I can feel it taken over, and no one knows it  they will never guess it
but I did not stop cuting

now i'm 22 years olds

sometimes I feel so fake I wanna scream,
I don't reconize me anymore, but I never like me anyway
I can't understand how I can want those feeling back?
I mead so long, how can I just stop?
Cuting is part of me, as much as I want it gone
then why did cry so much, more then the blood
why do I feel so worthless saying
I did not stop cutting...

her obscure face in the cold bathroom
cigarette hangs limply from her
smooth lips
her words are few and spoken very softly
she asks if i like the girls room
her hand rests on mine
its so warm...too warm

she spent hours cutting paper into butterfly's
and taping them to the motel wall
all different colours
all different sizes

she removes her shirt and splashes water
on her bare skin
glistening in the buzzing overhead florescent light
there is a slight smile pasted on her face
eyes open a slit
i am worried about her
im not good at pretending
and she laughs at me a soft laugh
cups my face in one hand and tells me
thats shes fine
that if i wasn't her sisters man
she would jump my bones
i make her put her shirt back on

paper butterfly's
and her very human face
filled with tears
filled with fears

i wrote a letter on a napkin,
Left it in the break room for all to see,
Butterflys & dragon wings,
Dented brains,
Zombies are lame,
Apostolic Atmosphere,
Coke pancakes,
Canadian convos,
Metaphorically you're a drawr in reverse,
I'm not ****** just lonely.

Laid on a starbound white vessel of profound sspirit.
Dont pay attention to the horrors in the shadow, they can eat you alive if you let them.
They aren't folk heroes, They're faux heroes

Alien tremors like indigo ephemerals
The vibrations are not elastic but
Real creatures in the night
The sun isn't shining light, its sharing a shadow
Believe what you want, spiritual by passing at best
The skull eclipses have gone and went
The moon lets the blood, the dark
Has sent its blessings
Time to move on, shedding skin
Like cocooned butterflys or snakes at age
A new age of reality has begun on the 4th page
4 dimensions
Burn some sage, prepare for the transcendence

when i met you
you were  like a catipiler
i tryed to aproach you
you matured in a cocoon
feelings started to grow
you broke out of your shell
i realized how much i liked you
you spread your wings and took flight
true beuty is you
when i see you
I get butterflys

You have problems
Just like we all do.
except you take yours out on me
you lie
and lie
all the time
did you think I was that stupid?
maybe I am...
I do let you control me
I do let you lie to me
so maybe it's me
I'm the fool
I'm the one who lets you treat me like a tool

I use a flashlight
Shine it
Shed light
On what?
On me?
I'm not creative
I don't deliver any talents worth mentioning
Keep that spotlight off of me

My words don't shine bright
Stand out
Its the same thing over and over
Repeat after me
I am not creative
My words don't shine bright
Stand out
Its the same thing over and over

I'm like that annoying cd that skips repeatedly
The same phrase, the same verse

I can't mold something new out of already hardened clay
I can't dream up beautiful rhyming words
I can't make a trending poem
Not one that paints a gorgeous portrait in the mind of its readers

We can talk about roses all day long if you want
Or tree's and sunshine
And blue sky's!!
Oh and rainbows and butterflys
If that's what makes a poem worth reading
We can talk about love
And hearts
We can hold hands and blows kisses
Peace and harmony

Or we could talk about the real stuff
The Shadows
The dark stuff
Teardrops
The shattered mirrors
All of our fears
The things that bring about nightmares
The truth
The ugliness
The misery
The dark and twisted stuff
They say the mentally disturbed are the most creative

Its up to you
Dear poet
Person sitting there at the steering wheel
Staring at the road ahead
Put the car in drive
Steer it in the right direction
Or is there a right direction?

Its all just space
Blank space
The pen just sits there in your hand
Waiting for an idea to take shape
Hope its going to be worth the struggle
The self loathing
Worth picking and prodding at your ego
Telling you, you **** at writing
So why bother right?

It's more than just a poem
Its more then just a page in your story
A direction in your life
A struggle
A meaning
A life
Its your life

welcome to my life
full of glitz and glamour
**** and clamor

stipper poles and alcoholic binges
dark holes and ***** syringes

happiness then suicide
smiles and selfish pride


i get so high
and fall so low
i get so happy
and then i just dont know
what am i doing here in this god forsaken place

the guitar helps me get through
the words help me make sense of it all
melody flows through me
the butterflys churn endlessley in my stomach

waiting for the crowd to assemble
waiting for the silence to rumble
waiting for the stage to go dark
waiting for the spotlight and the spark

and then i sing
o
i sing
to everyone and to no one

and then all my glorious, decadent **** for a life somehow shines
when those empty sea of eyes meet mine
and i sing a song
and i sing a song