I fell over the other day,
Silly and embarrassing really,
Also ****** painful and in truth?
Avoidable!

But it got me thinking because
I was pulling on a rope when it happened,
A rope that then gave way,
It doesn't matter how,

And as I fell
I grasped that natural fibre cord
Even harder as if it
Even then would save me

From the painful landing,
No breaking fall,
No twist or roll just falling
Holding a slack hempen line,

But we all do this in life,
We hold our dreams long past
The point where they
Even slightly may come true,

We grasp them ever tighter
Even as they slip through the fingers
Of our hearts
And lonely souls

Until we land as I did
In a heap - covered not in mud
But in the knowledge not sjust
That it is over (whatever "it" may be)

So much as that it never was

Nor in fact would ever be

I'm an artist.

I feel everything. Nothing is too small or too big in my world. I'm an artist. I write and create, I dream and fantasize, there is music in my dreams. There's color everywhere. I'm an artist, I feel more than I see. There's magic where I'm from.

I sing with the birds every morning. I hum the softest notes. I'm an artist. Life is a musical to me. There's music everywhere. I'm an artist. I live for life, and I live for moments. I live for meet cutes and roses. I live for glitter and purses. I live for shoes and jackets. I live for power and strength. I live for music, poetry, and films. I live for heartbeats and strings. I live for the plot.

I'm an artist, I strut about like a lioness. There's no fear in my veins, only chords. In thee end, behold angels applauding, and singing, standing ovation, lights everywhere. Glitter on my face with my yellow sequin dress, floating up above. Standing ovation. I'm an artist and when the Father meets me, I will sing, "I have lived. I have lived. I have lived. Indeed I had fun."

I'm an artist. I have me, I have it all. ✨️I have it all✨️.

In dreams, I’m where the music plays.
I’m listening to the laughter, like it’s in another room.
My drink is dark, bitter and oaky tasting
and the peanuts taste like soap.
There aren’t any napkins.
Others are lines of light and shadow.
I feel an anxiety that I gnaw on,
like a dog works a bone.
My dream’s conflating memories.
Suddenly Lisa’s there,
she comes up from behind,
“Aww, your tag is sticking out,” she says
but before she can fix it,
I hear tower bells ringing.
It’s my alarm.

It's been a while,
Don't you think ?
And
I haven't learned a thing
No way I jump
I know I'll sink.
And still
You'd have no clue.
How much
You twist me up
Melt me...
Bind me like glue.
It's silly
Don't you think ?
When I'm driving home
From a good time,
Tell me why
I think of you.

winter warfare
torments our dwellings brickwork
night of casualties
aggressive plague on my dreams
wakes me  to be visited

And with this hope...

When all these walls turn into doors
Oceans into rivers with bridges
Mountains into hills, hills to fields

Will you then realize
The potency of all your dreams
When you tell them to me
They invade all my air space
My thoughts and my sleep
And I hold onto them for you
Thinking of ways to draw maps
Reciting them in my prayers
Waiting for the day
When all this hope I carry
Returns home to you

And with this hope...

I exist in a world where you are never without dreams

The city of my dreams
Where dreams come true
Where fairytales exist
In Shakespeare's plays
Romeo dying for Juliet
Me slowly dying for you
Now that I'm here in London
Everything seems much clearer
During this cold winter
London fails to keep me warm
My heart feels frozen
All I ever wanted in my life
Was to make it in London
I never realized
London was never my real gem
You were my dearest, Rose
Now even with millions
Who appreciate my writing
You were my inspiration
London feels dark without you
I'll be home to see you
I can't continue without my true London
You made my dreams come true
I'll be back
For you are my London

~
Time is a dark feeling
—the spell of a vanishing loveliness;
in the present mist
the imperatives in the wind
move less and less.

Haul away the anchor,
this is not a safe place.

Between insufficient coasts
—a land of look behind—
science is dead,
pessimism in the remaining oar,
and flies in the eyes of the Queen.
Their graves decorate the spine
on the east bank
they call Euthanasia,
each crucifix made of plasticine.

There's a discursive quality to the sea,
I can see the pearl fishermen,
the empty dancehall,
victims of latitude and eclipse.

I can see the tattered sleeves
of Edmund Fitzgerald and the pockets
of emptiness inside,
hoping to quell the hunger
of the cruelest month.

I can see an underwater country,
colonized by the unborn children
of pregnant African women
thrown off of slave ships
during the Middle Passage.

I can see myself sinking;
farewell my sorrow,
keeping precarious time
against a backdrop
of silence less and less;
its final sound being
that of seagulls
flying away into the distance
—a force of nature that’s
both solemn and inspirational
in equal parts.
~