I love the words that I read here
The ones that you leave spoken,
Your hopes and loves, doubts and fears,
The thoughts you write upon being awoken

Offering perspective,
Through a page, to see your reality,
Concocts a connection:
The power of empathy

Old, young, the chained and the free,
And especially the pariahs,
Whose words read to me
Like a personal Messiah’s

I read them from my bed,
Words of comfort, words of woe,
I suppose I could just leave it unsaid,
But I wanted to say hello.

Your eyes


      We're the pools


     I swam in
every morning.

When would a thorn and petal,
                 look so unavailable.
One sharper than any wit,
that would make you laugh
                at even the saddest moment.


Smooth like sandpaper always saying
               the mostly badly timed
                                                    replies...
Yet her voice was scented and smooth.
              No matter what her words
                                             wrapped around,
no offence could be taken.


I offered her a rice crispy cake when we
                                                               first met..
As she struggled for breath I started the
                            kiss of life..

Then she grabbed her pen stabbing it in my arm
                                 not hers..
                                the blood and all I remember

was lips on mine.. she'd managed to pen herself.
I didn't realise she had a nut allergy.
         but as I awoke her lips breathing into me.
I thought id repay the favour.

                        I've never been kissed so passionately
                                                     before death she said.

I was her petal and she was the thorn.

                           she'd giggle at a funeral,
  

I'd cry thoughts of the past of what was cut short.

               but in her eyes, it wasn't sadness but joy,

that so many had turned up to see you
             this last time. And the dreadful outfit
                        you'd picked to spend eternity in.

Do sleepless nights yield heavy thoughts?
Or do the synapses firing prohibit silent slumber?
Neural highways at traffic jam capacity
Rush hour never ends when I retire

Electrical signals consistently skip and zip
Awake or asleep, thinking or dreaming
Mystifying visions of past, present and future
Entertain the brain while the body refreshes

A blissful recollection of pure jubilation
Transitions the mind into sweet meditation

My alarm becomes a synaptic disturbance
The ears at the receiving end of the siren
Alert, alive, living
But exhausted from the Prednisone Curse