I don't know where
I'm going
I'm lost in despair
I can't find my way
Through the path of the wind
When I do it just
Blows me to sin
So how to get through to
the path of the wind
Nobody knows

As if she stays.
Ever ever stays.
A written word's waste.
Her good grace,
and mordant touch.
An adagio distance,
with askance persistence.
Craves to never have had,
never had been.

Count the doubles,
and minus the count.
Split the difference,
forget the amount.

It does hold.
hold hold on.
In silence's wordless way.
A slight trace,
my mindful crutch.
A cadence of defeat,
age of the time complete.
A Wish to have forever,
that which was never.

Count the doubles,
and minus the count.
Split the difference,
forget the amount.

Just sitting here,
on a summers day.
With my imaginary girlfriend.
You may see empty space,
but to me it's a beautiful face.
With long glimmering
hair of every colour.

A mind of endless adventure;
she whispers ideas,
offers advice,
and  I listen.
She never needs
to speak twice.

Just sitting here,
on a summers day.
Listening to her;
“ you can write a poem about
me and it will say;”

Just sitting here,
on a summers day....

Words wings clipped,
By a shadows sharp edge.
falling down
to meet history's drowning dregs ,
swim and struggle in the
unseen stream.
Dying alone unheard.
Goodbye; dear word.

I honestly enjoy my head space
Even though me and my demons come face to face
So often it has become mundane
I am rather fond of my brain
Though I know all I do is overthink
So often it puts me on the brink
I've come to appreciate the extremes
And for that matter my daydreams
I fall in and out of reality
Without the slightest feeling of abnormality
Yes I am indeed quite odd
I'm broken, I'm ****** up, I'm flawed
Every day is a discovery
No I'm no in need of recovery

I see things..
Far from beauty
But instead, souls.
Souls that remain with darkened faces,
And ragged shattered cloth.
Just like their hearts,
And their eyes?
I can’t bare them,
I can’t see them
Not because they’re not there.
But because I'm not there.
-
Shifting through the corners,
Standing behind my back,
Why are they watching?
Why are they listening?
I know they’re not there.
But they are there.
-
Curse these wooden floors,
Curse these twisted minds
Curse these broken bones
Curse these stricken eyes
But one thing that I shall not curse
Is their hopeless hearts,
For they have no heart.

Wax hammers melting under a suspicious sun,
bubbling on the soft tarmac road unspun.
Sarcastic grass struts in impotent arrogance,
at the rustling of a billion pointless paper bags.
As sparkling sin, trusts a single pointless poem.

A round of a-pause on automatic notions of thoughts magic potions,
jury agrees, Faith succeeds; we'll all stop unanimously.
Thinking that clocks will melt and we will not,
Speak on not to save our manners for
other matters.
But the clocks do melt,
along with us.