[written with Isaac Cornford. Thanks mate.]

He loves me because he loves me
He loves me because he can
He loves me because he chose me
He loves me - that’s his plan

It’s always his plan to love me
To cast out all my fears
His love will always surround me
He loves when no one’s near

He loves me most and loves you more
His love will never run out
His love is true and gets truer
His love is never in doubt

His love is nothing that we’ve earned
It’s nothing we deserve
His love’s a perfect gift to us
A gift we can return

Some things I will not say
I will not form those words
Lest they be heard
Lest they be believed
and the truth of self
be known.

No, some things I will not say
I'll keep their silence
Keep my distance
and stay quiet
safe on this side
of my deceit.

This is spoken word
(that’s words aloud)
freed from the screen
sent out proud

words finding voice
sounds in word form
finding new ears
words outperformed

When words stay inside
they fester and blister
they poison and kick
sour and bitter

it’s only out loud
that’s words pass the test
it’s when they’re outspoken
they get off my chest

This is spoken word
loud words out-loud
ready to be heard
above the crowd

Was he a good child?
I mean good at being a child?
Was he good at play?
And was he loyal to friends
come what may?

Could you tell by the bruises,
his scrapes and cuts?
Was it obvious by his defiance
and by his reluctance
at the close of the dance?

Was he a good child?
I ask because I want a man
who’s good at living,
who knows his own priorities,
a friend who will stand by me
long after the music ceases.

So tell me,
was he good child?

One of my earliest memories in my history
(if not THE earliest)
features a tree.
A stump of a tree
in the middle of our back garden.

And my dad and his friends removed the tree,
maybe an Oak, I don’t know,
I just know it was there first
and we removed it to make room for growth.

That was an unnecessary necessity
and the start of something that lasted.
Not as long as the tree, but still,
you can’t have everything.

Fairies knit tales, but they don’t have tails, I don’t think.  
Dog’s do.
Long,
with an abrupt end – that’s usually moving,
while never escaping its tether.
Is that the idea? – that no matter how far the tail goes,
it will never get out of hand.
Unless it’s docked of course – that is the saddest tail,
a stump of a tail that still tries its best,
but is destined for a short and disappointing end.

If I were a dog without a tail, I think I’d think it was the end of the world.

If I were a fairy without a tale – I would be sadder still.

The End.

I don't care what you think.
It works – just - fine.
Probably too well, all considered.
But that's a heart for you.
It breaks.
That's the way you know
it's fine.