Be who you want to attract,
Before you start "searching" for the right person,
Be the right person,
Find yourself,
Be comfortable with who you are,
Find happiness within you,
If someone is the only basis of your joy,
I'm afraid,your joy might be a mirage.

He wanted to know her
he wanted to touch every inch
of her imperfectly perfect skin
to know every scar
to know her tiger stripes
from growth spurts and pregnancy
the pieces of metal left in her
and the dislocated bones
all had their own stories from childhood
the day she was caught on a fence
the tom boy in lace socks
her mum had dressed her in
for Sunday school
the ripped dress as she fell in mud
breaking her right elbow which to
this day left her with a bone pointing out
he wanted to spend days
just looking at her scarred face-
her upper lip – sat in the changing rooms
after a gymnastics competition
playing catch but the bottle of water
went right at her face
her forehead – walking at ten months
trips and falls, she hits her head
on the way down face to face
with the rockery -
incidentally the rockery where the cat
is buried
poor thing was stood on many times
as she was learning to walk
he counts the freckles on her left cheekbone
which on her porcelain skin
shine like Orion’s Belt on a clear night
he loved every part of her she did not
he memorized every feature that made
her “her”
he knew the truth had always been there
right in front of him since the first
time he saw her naked –
her naked soul exposed a long time before
anything he could ever make tangible.

© Sia Jane

Shall we, too, rise forgetful from our sleep,
And shall my soul that lies within your hand
Remember nothing, as the blowing sand
Forgets the palm where long blue shadows creep
When winds along the darkened desert sweep?
Or would it still remember, tho’ it spanned
A thousand heavens, while the planets fanned
The vacant ether with their voices deep?
Soul of my soul, no word shall be forgot,
Nor yet alone, beloved, shall we see
The desolation of extinguished suns,
Nor fear the void wherethro’ our planet runs,
For still together shall we go and not
Fare forth alone to front eternity.

It's hard to write a poem
When there's nothing going on
It's hard to think of what to say
When you've given most of it away

As poets we never scratch the surface
We delve within, disclose our deepest sin
We crave our pain, declare it's for our art
Yet more often than not have no idea where to start

But start we do and start we must
A deep desire in all of us
To spill out on the written page
What little bit we have tried to save

Ink now is the poets blood
Fragments of self pour from within
Silence is our safety net
To stop us from bleeding out

Although it's hard to write a poem
With nothing going on
We still find words to form a verse
From deep within our marrow bone

Work © Mike Hauser & © Sia Jane

You're a one night stand
But we spent too many nights
I lost count of it.

You're that unexpected kiss
On a drunken wasted night
Of vomits and *****.

You're that awkward hi
Exchanged by strangers who
Thought they both knew each other
But were clearly mistaken for another.

You're the bruise that turns blue
When I accidentally bump my leg
On the corner of the bed.

You're the scar that I never
Knew I had.

You're the bittersweet taste in
My mouth every morning.

You're the last thought lingering
In my head before slumber takes me
And you're the vagueness that
Haunts me in my dreams.

You're the scalding hot shower
In a cold freezing morning.

You're the boiling tea that numbs
My tongue for the rest of the day.

You're the obsession
I will never learn to let go of.

You're that person I will
Never get to call mine.

You're the one that got away.

in their bed of ash
lavender-grey and sultry

slowly reassemble into
a bed of coals
salmon and fuchsia

stretching
and
torching
the
morning
star


soulsurvivor
(C) 20/10/2015

he still doesn't realize
that beauty has a price

he plucks roses and
wonders why they wither
when he's never learnt
to check their roots.

with thorns between his lips,
he speaks softly about
the way love has eluded
him over the years.

his palms like written verse,
scarred and coarse, petals
falling delicately out of
time from his fingertips.

he sees beauty but he
does not see underneath

he has always been
one to see the flames
but never feel the heat.