And when I looked around the room, the room that was holding only my best pals I drowned out every uproar, every babel and every whisper. My vision went into slow motion as if I was part of a cliche romantic comedy. That's when it hit me. This idea of "love" everyone talks about isn't real. Love isn't crazy, it's not a movie scene, it's not selfish, and it's not complicated. Love isn't violently crying at 4 am over a boy thinking "he's my whole world" and "I can't live without him." Love is hanging out anywhere with your best friends, the friends that genuinely care for your well being. Love is laughing with them until your stomach hurts, laughing until it's almost morning and not giving a single **** that you didn't get any sleep. At the end of the day, that's the love I live for.

k.f.

Mike Bee,
Wandering Free.
My *****’s Pub Sunday Luncheon mate,
With always plenty on his plate.

Then at The Crow’s there’s John and Keith,
Using Sam Smith’s to wash their teeth.
What they don’t know, isn’t worth knowing,
Lots of banter to keep me going.

They call Brian there, “Encyclopaedia”,
With lots of facts, he will feed ya.
He’s so bright cos he’s from Leeds,
And knows his I before E except after Cs.

Paul Butters

He lived next door but one to us
and chased me down the entry.
We went to school and played our tricks.
We worked at weaving, wenched and fished.

Listened to the deadly yarn
the friendly sergeant spun.
Signed us up, lined up like bobbins,
waiting for our places in the sun.

Willie shared a *** with me
before the whistle blew.
We had a packet left
so shared our memories too.

We walked straight as shuttles
through that valley of the Somme.
Six hundred fell with Willie
neath the barrage from the ***.

The slaughter carried on.

The East Lancs filled our ranks
from outside Accrington.
Will sharing **** catch on.