In wild, wild moments there’s the rush of wind
Upon my face, streaming out strands of hair
As I run down hills of mind on lissom legs,
Twigs snapping under my feet while I remain
Childlike and playful, blissful and unaware.
But all this in my mind because
I cannot do this barefoot running anymore.
Can’t run at all.  Those days of mad abandon gone.
But I can still walk slowly on the nice neat paths
Among the bluebells and my heart can still
Skip, dance and jump for joy and sing its song

Bright and lovely
and exciting!
Then time passes
and the colours seemingly lose their excitements
all done and licked
tried and tempted
What's new?
Then some are darker than others,
all shadowing and dull
Then you'd wonder are they the true colours
But, they're not
Shine and polish
your mind
the colours are the same
Just pick up your stained glass from your pocket
and you'll see the colours you choose
Bright, colourful, ... and excited!
As they once were to you
As they have always been...

The girl hums happily, stitching the ragdoll back together.
Spools and needles lay around her, ready as ever.

Every morning she threads a needle and stuffs back the cotton.
Smiling to herself whilst looping the pretty buttons.

Each night is the same as the young girl sleeps.
The ragdoll awakens and from the bed she leaps.

She tears at her stitching and yanks out the cotton.
Pulls her limbs away and prays to lay there forgotten.

But the girl never forgets and at every dawn,
gathers the doll up with a smile and a yawn.

''Oh ragdoll, every night you do the same thing.
Tear yourself up limb from limb.

You don't think you're special or worthy or loved.
At the bottom of every pile of dolls, you've been shoved.

But I will keep stitching you back up until you see,
just how much you really mean to me.'

I want to write a poem that smells like perfume
that flits and that flips through a rose-tinted room
all wispy and wet and cosmic and cool

I want to write a poem that omits all the grease
the fierce firing squad, pimps, perverts, police
to tickle your fancy and make you go guuguu

I want to write a poem that moves through your veins
like sweet fairy dust not shackles and chains
be part of the pop cult, feel the pulse, feel the pulse

I want to write a poem that travels lit-up highways
with no broken bulbs, no sirens nor slipped gears
without red-danger zones nor emergency phones

I want to write a poem with soft cuddly toys
and trinkets and things that make no loud noise
to nibble your chin and that sort of thing

I want to write a poem with an innocent face
that softens your edges and slows down your pace
'til you're won and you're one and you purr and you hum

I wanted to I really did
2015