I would write to you
if you would reply to me
But if they ever saw these letters
then who would I be writing to?

I write a page at a time
only ever staring blanky a few moments
and then picking up the pencil
and letting my hand glide over paper,
But who am I writing to?

Am I writing to myself
or am I writing to my fallen dreams,
my fading memories
of a time I once longed for,
but can never reach.

Am I writing to the person I wish I was?
This person is an imposter
a fake; an intruder
whose sole purpose is to let them never
see the real me.
So they only know the perfectly flawed,
but never enough to take action.

I think I write to both,
a desperate cry for someone to heal me
with their fingertips drying my tears in the night
after another bitter fight that leaves me hollow
and lets me fade away into restless sleep
as my tears leave trails on my cheeks.

Yesterday I went to sleep
Dreaming of all the things I could write

And now the pen is in my hand.

But why do my thoughts
refuse to budge

From you

Maybe it is too late
Maybe I'm not cut out to be yours
But I can write
and I can feel
and isn't that important?

I love music
But can only sing flat.
And I can’t play musical instruments
With their baffling array of keys or strings.
So, I try to write music with words.
For I also love to write.

Distant misty hills beckon my soul
To fly amongst banks of swirling clouds
Then up into the stars.

The impossible mystery of infinity intrigues me:
Beyond, beyond, beyond, beyond…
Endless stories unfold before us
(Yes, you can come too!)
Eternity that has no horizon.

I love to love
My love,
For love makes the world go round
Or so I heard.
I love all plants and animals
And people too:
All that Mother Multiverse has spawned
And reared.

Love is all we need
They sang
And they were right.
So let’s get loved up
With lorra loving.
Feel that love.

For that’s why I write.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\2\2020.

Please send me a letter.
I’ll open it up
And smile
As your handwriting graces my eyes,
And your words smile back at me.

You strip me naked from the neck up

Run with my thoughts and bounce them

Take everything

Leave nothing but your opinion,

A termite

Eating at the hollowed log that once was me

Woodpulp on the forest floor

Far below where you cannot see

Infinite and beautiful

In variety and colour

Fungi flower in the light of your shadow

My hidden garden of words

You didn’t like the smoke
So I quit smoking
You didn’t like my writing
So I stopped dreaming
You didn’t like my singing
So I was left with listening

Now you have another fool
To demolish the dreams of

I can breathe again
I smoke
I write
I sing

And I’ve lost you
But I love myself again