I used to climb on window pipes.
Look through the neighbour's side,
Reach around trying to climb high.
I wanted to go into the dark skies
Find the real paradise.

And I am still climbing the staircase
where the happiness begins
but the steps are never ending
my legs are forever bending
the journey, like any, is tiring.

I see behind the wheelie bins
  that they've dropped a little parcel
It's only slightly soggy
  and the label looks still legible
I can see it's not for me
  (they should really be more careful)
So I drop it in the bin
  that's marked only for recycle.

Everytime
I walk past the window
where you were
I begin to wave,
but as I start the hello motion I remember
you're not there anymore,
just a empty seat
behind a full green door.
Oh Roy.
But at least there are still sinews
that move
in anticipation of you,
and muscles connected to bone
acknowledge
the space you left.
Now everytime I walk past your window and raise a hi
it's mixed with the love
of goodbye.

We admire the starry sky
the flourishing earth and ourselves
and we conclude: God

is incapable of creating
something improvable
so mankind must be good

our morals don't go backward
or forwards, nor up or down
but left and right, side-wards

to and fro, from person to person
between hard and soft, joys and sorrows
young and old, wise and stupid

busy every day
to take care of ourselves
and to be a good neighbour

I've been looking for a Christmas Tree
The search has been so hard
Last night, I found the perfect one
Outside in my front yard

I venture past it every day
But, it never caught my eye
The tree is forty two feet tall
It reaches to the sky

Last night as I was leaving home
The moon shone oh so bright
It caught the snow on one low branch
And it really was a sight

I looked at it much closer
Saw perfection to my surprise
I'd been looking for the perfect tree
And here it was before my eyes

I couldn't bring it in the house
It would stay out front for all to see
We'd decorate it outside where it stood
The Perfect Christmas Tree

We started putting lights on it
We could only go so high
A neighbor stopped on his way home
with an idea he said to try

He came back by this morning
With some friends and just our luck
They came with two long ladders
And a bright red fire truck

In no time all the neighbors
Started coming by to see
They all bought decorations
For our giant Christmas Tree

It took two days to finish it
This tree that stood so tall
We planned to light it up that evening
To be seen by one and all

On Christmas Eve it happened
The fire truck made one last stop
They extended both their ladders
We put the star up on the top

It was perfect, and we knew it
The neighborhood was there as one
The lights and decorations
Made it light up like the sun

So, next time you need something
Look around and you might find
Perfection, like our Christmas Tree
Just as God designed

i cant promise you
that god exists.
i dont know it for certain.

but i do find myself
wondering how
i can even see the sky
in the night time.

i dont know if god exists.
or of all the different ones,
which is most true.

sometimes we are so blinded
by uniform
we forget what lies beneath it.

My new neighbour depression,
lives in a house rotting in the ground,
scarred wood torn away and roof tiles scattered,
with garden flowers withering away,
trees cracking at the slightest move of the wind.
Ever since he moved in a storm cloud
hangs low over the neighbourhood,
soaking my lawn and treading on my grass.
My neighbour depression
throws heavy stones to crack my windows,
leaves untidily scrawled messages of hatred in my letterbox,
leaving a trail of black paint up to his backgate.
My neighbour depression
takes advantage of my protection of thin walls,
and each day attempts to crash through them like a wrecking ball,
slowly dimming my lights and making shadows in my room
appear darker and bigger.
My neighbour depression
walks down the street like a black hole,
******* out all the sound around him.
And my neighbour depression
is starting to make me forget what my voice sounded like.

We live in an age
Where people go
From home to
Work or school
And return back.
Knowing who
Works with
Or attends class
With them...
But nobody knows
The people who live
Next to,
In front of,
Or behind them
I mean,
What are neighbours anyway?
God teaches us:
"Love your neighbour
As you love yourself"
And although this may not
Necessarily be
The literal neighbour,
They too fall into
This group

My neighbour is heartbroken.
She had her heart torn into pieces by a poet,a writer, a painter and a singer.
Her silent cries are thought to be hidden through her thick walls.
But I hear them.
She spends her nights screaming and rummaging the pain silently away.
But loud enough for me.
I hear her sharp razor tickle through her skin creating a flawless crisscross pattern.
I see the blood explode from her vein running down her no longer smooth skin dripping on the tiles forming a puddle.
I hear the loud crack from her throat that shows me the tears that desperately escapes from her eyes,running down her cheeks searching for a way out.
She covers her mouth,closes her eyes and huddles, hoping she's tricking her heart to believe she's being cuddled,
But her mind and I know what's real.
Her blood's escaping vigorously,
Her hearts beating ferociously,
Her mind is wandering off into darkness tremendously.
My neighbour is heartbroken and I don't know what to do.
I cannot save her.
She believes that I am like him.
Because I am a poet.