Thought I must be in a dream.
when you sang me the sweetest music.
It was was then that i fell in love.
When you took me to your home,
Signing about hope.
For once, I wasn't occupied by sorrow.

Lets listen to more of your music.
While we rest in your home.
Together fighting of sorrow.  
Only focusing on our hopes.
Thinking of our summer love.
And talking about our dreams.

See I've been working on a high hope.
That maybe we have a shot for more than love.
So Lets write some music.
That will stop us dwelling on sorrow.
We'll sing a song about our wildest dreams.
And maybe this will be our home.

We can do what we like in our home.
Wasn't that our biggest hope?
Wasn't that our brightest dream?
Can't you see it, my love?
A place without sorrow.
Where we can play our music.

There is nothing stronger than our love.
And we won't give into sorrow.
For as long as we are together, we dream.
Waiting for the baby to join this happy home.
We write new joyous music.
And it is a reality, our biggest hope

But sometimes you lose the fight against sorrow.
And nothing is like what was in your dream.
It did nothing having hope.
Disappointment moved into our home.
I never thought it would end like this, my love.

So now sorrow takes your place in this home.
There is no more hope, i have no more dreams.
Because you see my love is gone, and now I write only the saddest of music.

Have you ever fallen in love
And noticed some time after
Your heart was left cool and empty?
Did they take another’s side
With more vigor than you had seen?
Have you loved your children still?

Have you ever told a heart to still,
Broken your own to let it drink of love?
Has your compassion been seen
In comfort only or even after?
Have you sat at pain’s relentless side
And given until you are empty?

Have you seen a world so empty,
So violent and so still,
As when you leave your mother’s side?
Her embrace more natural a home for love,
In childhood and after,
Than any I’ve ever seen.

Have you ever not been seen?
Has the sky ever looked empty
As a hurricane’s before and after?
Have you kept on shouting still
When there is no answer from love
Because you know it belongs at your side?

Have you ever looked inside
And not understood what you’ve seen?
Is there a more confusing language than love
When you’re told to give and you’re empty?
Is your mantra “peace, be still”
When you’re uncertain about the after?

This is the ever after.
There is no more outside.
I have died to love them still.
There is no one who has seen
That can say my heart isn’t empty.
The name of my reign is love.

Will you cling to the side of love
After the body is empty?
There is still a world to be seen.

The first pair of shoes you wore were black,
velcro straps sat atop your pair of dollies
to make it easier to put them on for the park.
They were meant to be smart, but you laughed
as you wore them against the ground so free
as dad slung the swings, smiling at his child.

Our mum told me I was a creative child:
I didn't like to wear anything black. Red
suited me in how I stood in puddles, free
in indifference to how brown my wellies
became. If I was asked why, I'd shout,
“I'm pretending we're all at the seaside.”

From there we made our way to beaches,
where the wind was crisp and the children
we could see around us acclaimed screams
of emphatic joy at how the sea was so blue
and big. We had to wear pairs of sandals
when we went, but being barefoot felt free.

All that time we had at being young and free
soon went with the summer ending in school,
the arrival of my freshly polished black boots
was identical to almost every other child's-
a lather of paint dripping over in mud yellows
proved who I was with a mother's groan,

and this wasn't the only time she wailed.
As we grew older and wanted to be free,
my sister started to experiment with pink
highlights in her hair as I visited clubs
with fake ID. We were adults with childish
personalities in how I wore my Docs

like a religion for feet, my sibling in high heels
that you could hear in Sunday morning claps.
The arguments broke out: she wanted a child,
mother saying was too young, needed to free
herself from lazy culture and find a workplace.
I'd never seen both their faces so gushed red,

just like the red richness of those wellies
I had worn in the park. I pipe up and say,
“The best freedom is our time as children.”

Tonight, Depression is sitting in my nose.
She likes to tickle the inside and whisper
things like, “Don’t you see that your friends
don’t love you? You care too much about
yourself. What have you done this year
To make it worthwhile? You just stay in bed.”

I remember that the last time I made my bed
I sat on top and cried because no one knows
That I have tried dying three times this year
by disappearing into the wall. Always, whispers
follow me: “My daughter and I, we had a bout,
something about leaving with her friends

for good. I told her, ‘I don’t like your friends’
and she looked at me, then went to bed.
I don’t understand what she goes on about
when she complains about her nose;
she says that sadness comes and whispers
from there, and sometimes it leaves by ear.

I told her not to get that piercing last year.
You know, I hate how she listens to her friends
instead of me.” These little barbed whispers
fly swift from her mouth  and put me abed,
unable to face the world that just knows
that my heart is bleeding from a little “bout.”

But then, I wonder, what is all this about?
I sit in the bathtub and get water in my ears
when I meant for it to end up in my nose.
I decide to go under for good when my friends
call me and share their plans from some hotel bed;
they tell me they know how to help in a whisper.

That’s the night I leave, my feet mere whispers
on the carpet. I take everything I care about,
regretting only the fact that I can’t take my bed
with me; if you’ve ever spent an entire year
alone in one place, you know why. My friends
assure me leaving my mother is easy, but who knows?

I watch her sleep and breathe through her nose one last time, and I hear Depression whisper.
She speaks in my mother’s voice, condemning my friends and demanding to know what I’m about
to do. I smile because I know that surviving will be hard this year, but this time I won’t stay in bed.