When the room is empty,
and the people have left
and you’re waiting, wondering,
what will come next?

A haven of memories,
long phone calls and late-night dances
hard work and parades of tears
then left with hardly a glance.

So many firsts
trapped in one room
the thoughts and the feeling,
stuck in its loom.

It’s no longer yours,
the decorations pulled down,
bare and barren just like when you moved in,
might never have left your hometown.

When the day won’t move and the clocks aren’t tickinG,
    A lonely hour feels like an iNvitation
        Into endless Isolation.
           aTTacking
     Internal thoughts Into
   A vengeance against   Nobody.
Without a minute to spare yet nothinG to do.

Please, let me stay gentle,
do not force me to cry –
raging into battle in a voice that isn’t mine.
Folding into a wooden mask,
day beyond day,
you never would guess that I am afraid.
Head down through the blizzard,
I march as I must,
fighting envy and heartbreak, reduced to mere lust.
Please, let me stay gentle,
or at last you will see,
my face for the world is not really me.
One day it will splinter,
and all that remains,
is a pair of dead eyes, carved by years of pain.
I don’t think I’m made
for this harsh, noisy world,
but my quiet pleas for silence have long gone unheard.
Please, let me stay gentle,
let me sing with the birds,
my voice in its softness at last would be heard.
With the peace of kindness,
we could move through our lives,
if only we all were a little more wise.
I’m not made for fighting,
for the pressure and hate,
just forced into the conflict by some perverse fate.
Please, let me stay gentle,
you’ve said that you care,
yet the blizzards continue, and I am still there.
It’s crushing my core,
having to every day be,
someone so completely unlike me.
Please, listen to me,
no more bathing in blood.
Please, let me stay gentle,
then I’ll know that I’m loved.

Veins that branch up to the arches,
sun that rises, comes down, and parches.

It is mighty, it is strong,
it has been here all along.
The arms shield, the legs stand firm.
From tallest human to smallest worm,
it rises above and shields us all,
yet we hardly ever notice it, at all.

It is playful, it is kind,
it helps soothe our hearts and minds.
The fingers tickle, tease, and fright -  
letting in the dappled light.
It sees us laughing as we play,
it entertains us, day after day.

It is noble, it is wise,
it has seen so many lives.
The body will shelter and explore,
we couldn’t really ask for more.
It braves the truths and grows despite,
living through the darkest nights.

I cannot help but admire,
the trees – of their company, I’ll never tire.

there are ghosts
in the kitchen.
a delicate crust
of parties once held there.
late night conversations
and delirium.
a crumb of a pudding
salted by tears.
remnants of a dinner
seasoned by laughter.  
yes, there are ghosts in the kitchen
confused why you’re leaving.
they didn’t notice
that the party was over.

It is only at night that the fairies come.
Scattering petals,
with imagined promises.
Clouds of sleep waft through the air.
Breathing dreams,
that have gone stagnant and stale.

For it is our greatest fear.
Taking control,
of our solitary fate.
So instead we plead the fairies.
Passing tasks,
to our mirages of hope.

We are brought in as children.
Whispering words,
at clock faces and night stars.
Told, ‘everything happens for a reason’.
Crying tears,
but 'it’s not our fault'.

As we grow older, we find out the truth.
Learning facts,
about the way that we live.
So what’s left of us?
Throwing dreams,
to a paradise made of plastic.

Yet we all stay in line.
Obeying orders,
and wishing for better.
One day we’ll realise, with
sickening dread.
Nobody is coming to save us.

It is only at night that the fairies come.
Destroying ambitions,
as we encourage them.
And what do they leave behind?
Deserting favours.
Taking off their magic wings.

Left as shells of who we could be.
Following, mindless.
Forgetting, almost, that we are alive.
We wait forever, living only in death.
Needing change,
but begging the fairies. And doing nothing.

walking on a tightrope
day in and out
and I ask myself
‘what are you afraid of?’
but I don’t answer
because I’m afraid of it
one foot
in front
of the other
constant fear
that I am going to
**** this up
the way I always do
it doesn’t take a lot
to topple me off this tightrope
I was barely on it anyway
and I’m so tired of falling
time and time again
I promise myself it’s over
no more tightrope
stay on the ground
where it’s safe
but something compels me
to get back on
like I’m a circus animal
it’s well worth a laugh
to an outsider
at least
I come to fear the tightrope
more than the reason for it
I want to hate the tightrope
so I do
without wondering why
and it destroys me
it only takes one step
to end my time up here
and there is a cruel pleasure in the pain of the fall
hurt myself
before somebody else can
stop trying
a tempting siren
but I know
that I’ll have to get back up
over and over
one foot
in front
of the other
in front
of
the
other
and I’m so tired
I never want to walk
the tightrope
again.

Have you ever felt
like a doorstop?
A heavy weight,
waiting to be needed?

Have you ever felt
like nobody would notice,
if the door slammed shut,
if you were not there?

Have you ever felt
like a ***** window?
An irritation,
that nothing gets done about?

Have you ever felt
like people would be happier,
if they had no windows,
if they could not see you?

Have you ever felt
like a pair of old trainers?
A useful object,
but not worth admiring?

Have you ever felt
like it would be easier,
if they threw the trainers out,
if they could rest again?

Have you ever felt
like a broken pencil?
A piece of litter,
waiting to be sharpened?

Have you ever felt
like you’re beginning to wonder,
if they are ever going to sharpen you,
if you were ever sharp enough?

Have you ever felt
like it’s too hard to even ask,
if anyone will come back,
if anyone even notices you fade?

I hope somebody else has.

“In silence.” I say,
“In silence” I say, “we speak.”
No words need float between us.
Hopes hover, our secrets to keep.

Breaths trickle, heartbeats thunder,
But words remain withheld,
The beginnings of thoughts,
At our lips quelled.

Paper shields hang between us,
Halting our speeches.
We move them aside with gentle kisses,
As quiet as solitary preachers.

Fingers on lips,
Our eyes smile.
A flower of silence blooms between us,
Thinking not speaking, all the while.

“In silence.” I say,
“In silence we speak.”

slinking along
murmuring words
whether or not
they are heard

a crack in the land
a wound not healed
gushing through
the forests and fields

flowing loosely
from the mouth
from east to west
or north to south

leaves will float
rocks sink low
glimmering with
a moonlit glow

elegant paths
with the softest of bends
and harsh rocky banks
through endless landscapes it wends

a cooling dip
in summer drought
and freezes over
when the snow comes out

a home for fish
and fairies alike
hungry, it swallows
all things day and night

there’s nothing quite like it
we need not pretend
and only at the sea
does the river end.