it's hard to tell your story
life needs to make at least some sense
to be put into words
words are usually on my side
but in this case
my words are forests where my emotions can hide
in this case
silence
is my only sound

it's hard to open to a stranger
the words
the stories
things happened long ago
how do you tell them?
and what lights do you use

do you want to shine on your own role like
a victor
a victim
a bystander
what's my part of my life?

i answered the answer of why my life is falling apart
with silence
i have nothing to say
but silence masking my pain

cellophane hearts, loving in parts
letting emotions be replaced
once numbness starts, feeling departs
every thought is on the chase

feeling so stamped on

cellophane dreams, hushing the screams
smacking thoughts that defeat
like reality vaccines, by any means
every day is on repeat

So anyways there was this guy and this girl
And the guy was talking
To the girl about the chicken
Problem
And it really didn't make the girl feel
Any better
And then so they were talking
And
All of a sudden
There was this meteor
Except it wasn't really
A meteor
But since they were on hallucinogenic drugs
They thought it was a meteor
When it was really
Her dad.

So they started screaming and ran
Away from the meteor that was
Her dad
And the dad
Was all perplexed because they ran
From him so he figured that maybe
Maybe
There was something he didn't know
And of course
There was something he didn't know
In fact a lot
He didn't know
About science, arithmetic, geography
Love
But specifically about his daughter
So he figured that maybe
Maybe
They were going to elope
So he called after them,
"You can't elope!"
And they shot back
With an insult for the meteor
"You watermelon!"
And the dad just sat and cried
Cried and cried
Because
There comes a time when your
Children
Grow up
And elope
And use hallucinogenic drugs
And call you a watermelon
And run
Away.

the tales of things that have happened there
would send shivers down anyone's spine
the hills and hollows only glare
a shadowy gloom of a ghostly kind

you can still hear
the children's flaming screams
you can feel the fear
in the ashes of their dreams

passing the site where lives were set alight
fostered dreams were burned alive
they still return every night
the wandering ghosts of the deprived

the british way, not mentioning
yarn, too much, repeating words,
where no longer necessary. wool
in abundance here, piled on wool
lorries, neatly balanced with

premium  acrylic.

it is a fine line we walk,
gently avoiding peptides,
only just a theory, yet used
independantly, alongside
honest work, for mending.

today is hallow e’en

sbm