how I fall in love:
unexpectedly and uncertainly
usually under the guide of wine or whiskey, depending on my mood
drowning in a blur of voices and bursts of bright lights
an aura surrounds you; something jumps out at me
tattoos, or a woollen hat
a remark is made,
obvious or otherwise,
about your person
I can’t really see you clearly but I can tell who you are
your eyes are bright
rimmed with red, just like the amber Jameson you’ve downed
but they shine
you shine
I fall backwards into the ocean that are your eyes
I am smiling
when you hold me, I m e l t,
blend into you
I feel stable and erratic all at once
afraid to disappear completely into you
but wanting so much to
your arms are warm, humble and all-encompassing
you hold me
my tongue finds your both inside your mouth and out
it freely expresses how much I need
for once, we are speaking the same language
of patience and comfort and ease
and although I feel free and easy
inside, I race
my heart and thoughts
am I in love with you because you are in love with me?
afraid to
wait,
to give in to your attention to detail to the shape of my body moulded against yours
to the unease and confusion that plagues my mind
to the baggage I am carrying on all my limbs as I am lifted into your arms
to me and what I want
I can’t give you everything just yet
there’s a lock on what I will save until the perfect moment:
when we are laying in bed
yours or mind, no difference
and that secret or feeling or thought is pulsating, vibrating, screaming to be said
and because you are warm
and bright
and a knight of valour
I will say it
all of it
and I will fall backwards into the ocean that are your eyes
and allow myself to be saved from drowning by you.

I want to run.
Be free.
Be the little girl they see in me,
but plot-twist happen frequently,
opening your eyes to things you didn't see.
Burning the cheerful into your mind.
If only I didn't once leave that behind.
If I could return to those naive, fun days.
But fun was out and sad was in,
so I figured "well okay."
I dived right in,
singeing my skin,
turning me to the pit.
I was told,
"don't follow your instincts",
so I guess this is what I get.
Now I sit alone,
a pitiful lump of coal,
as a dog without bone,
or soccer ball with no goal.
I'm heading to "God knows where"
on a train called "Oopsy Days,"
and when I arrive,
they will all be amazed.
For I am the writer
who will give them a story,
for I am a lighter,
and my flame gives me glory.

Late Night Writing:
I am a journal
I am a journal. Those around me are the writers. They come to me with stories to tell.
She comes to me to write about her, the girl she loved, the one she’s not quite over and the one that’s not quite over her, she writes about her family life sometimes too. She comes around seldom, not quite sure if my pages will be read by others, or if they will keep our secrets. He writes about his past love, the one that didn’t work out, the one before me that he’s not quite over, the one that left him broken, with issues I cannot help him solve, she is the one who moved on and left him behind. He comes to me at 3 am, often after a night of drinking, sometimes not, and I am there my pages ready. She comes to me often, at many times of the day, and she has written many stories. Some of which I never did want to hear. She writes about boys, not men, they are immature, not deserving of her time, her pain or her love. I know this, but she has yet to realize it. She comes to me often, to tell me about the boys who are talking to her, the ones she responds to although she never really wanted to talk to them anyway, and I can’t help but wonder why she does this. She writes about one boy in particular, the one that really broke her heart; the one she’s still not over, the one she spends hours on before a party in hopes of making him jealous.
Like a journal I have no words to say, seldom any responses to give, and if I do they are weak. Instead I listen, I let them vent, I let them spew onto me their self-loathing and I soak in every inch of it, like paper gulps down every drop of ink. I carry their self-hate with me; I absorb it into my skin so they don’t have to carry it. This is all I can do for them. I have never experienced true heart break. No one has ever loved me, I have only loved others. No one has ever left me; because I have never been anyone’s to leave. I have no way of offering advice, so instead I let them pour out their feelings, I soak them up, I hold them in for them, I lessen their burden, assure them that everything will be okay, and then they leave. And I am left there, alone, so full with self- hatred, some my own, some of it theirs that I am ready to burst.
There is little room left in me, my pages are running low. Soon, I will be full, soon, I will be left unable to absorb any more, unable to let those around me use me as a journal, soon, I will be unable to help those who need me the most. Soon, I will become useless, people will stop coming to me, people will leave, and then what will be of me, but a journal full of hatred and a saturated sponge?

I have seen Maelstroms Eternal
Written by Adam M. Snow

I write with flowers of ink,
thy love poured out on page,
in a slumbering alder away in endless flight;
swaying with the stars, so white 'gainst the black night sky,
facing the horizons, on the calm black waters called -ink.
-I write for thee that thy heart be free.
I have seen maelstroms eternal,
mount in my soul but endless;
-An abyss without thee, I dare thee not.
By starlight the rushes lean over thee wide:
-The ink on the page is erased,
-The text is long forgotten.

while others dream of
getting an education
finding a job
getting a husband
buying a house
choosing curtains
washing sheets
doing chores
and shopping groceries for the week at the local supermarket
going out with the girls for a night out at some nice pub
having a baby
changing diapers
teaching your kid to talk and read
living the dream
cooking pies for pastry contests
growing old and becoming
a nanny
playing bingo in the local club
and driving a nice car
and not having troublesome teenagers
and dying peacefully
and having a fairly nice funeral
and a nice piece of land in the local cemetery,
I dream of
staying up until 4 a.m.
the only light coming from my
laptop screen
killing characters while pressing
keyboard buttons
drinking wine
and smoking rolled
cigarettes
in a cramped apartment
in some unknown city
a room
stuffed with art
and scattered manuscripts
all over the floor
caffeine nights
and starving my body
but feeding my mind
and freeing my soul
I don't dream of getting married
but of getting my characters together and
then drifting them apart
I don't dream of having children
but of writing children who
grab the opportunity and live
a fascinating life
I don't dream of living
I dream of creating lives
and deaths
and dreams
and love
I don't dream of dying an old lady
I dream of immortalising myself
in creating fictional lives

Winter Moon through a Third Eye
Written by Adam M. Snow

Staring out the frosted glass,
I ponder there, alone.
The moon, at its fullest, its highest peak,
all I can think of are words.
Words flowing off that fullest moon,
being born from my ink stained pen.
I write those words upon the page;
my heart flowing with the ink.
The soon winter night inspires me.
Staring out the frosted glass:
I glimpse eternity.

Ink-stained Lips
Written by Adam M. Snow

With ink-stained lips,
my words spill upon my page.
It is my blood which I shed,
my pain which I share.
My life of a dying age.