land of no responsibility
except to give in to that burning urge
that prickles up the back of your neck on waking
to be off out running under sun
barefoot as soon as out of sight
adventures wait and time belongs to you
you fish for sticklebacks in a field of golden corn
where farmers wave in anger at the trail to the pond
and take home tadpoles in glass jars on string
breathless at the sight of legs emerging
pick bluebells in the wood for mother
but then arrange them in old tins
in tumbledown cottage the gangs den
scrumping crab apples in overgrown gardens  
never getting that stomach ache all Adults warned of
roaming hedgerows looking for hedgehogs
hoping for signs of any living thing
all long fled at the collective noise you make
catching butterflies to look at their wings
putting crysillis in greaseproof papered jars
to watch them emerge for flight on glistening wings
when you return them to the wild
lifting up old drain pipes to look for slugs to race
not forgetting to put them back at races end so they dont shrivel
basking in hot sun after watching trails of catapillars
whose prickles mother later tweezers out
amidst a small flood of tears because they flame red
having a bath with bubbles then tucking up in bed
drowzy but anticipating  tomorrow is waiting

Lost in a forest full of tourist
Searching for peace
where I can replace hell with heaven
Grown catapillars dance in my belly
As I flirt with anxiety
Fear and death come to comfort me
I guess misery loves company
That’s why pain won’t ever let me be
It needs me in order for it to exist

Lights moves slowly at night. Brutal flashes of distance belongs to the daylight and the busy commoner.
In darkness all becomes soft and silent.
Wrapped in invicibility.
As the bus takes me trough space like catapillars on leaves, I catch myself wondering.
Whispering about who you are.
We look at ourselves trough magnifying glasses as if the essence of the world were to do the same.
A tool for us only, and the curiousity lingers...
we want to touch the imperfections we're not familiar with.
Blind we reach out for details that never hits the surface, and what insanity to think of diving into the cold!
Yet we never felt the temperature.
Expectations will overpower lust for most.
I travel alone in the dark, holding my own hand.
Impulses flow trough my body like the silent shock of bombs in the distance.
My mind is at cold war.
I want to touch and feel the bumpy road leaning towards my fear, and to taste the sweat of my dreams.
A toung caresses my mind so smoothly, as I yearn to figure out how words could ever touch me in such ways.
Am I warm, stranger?
You don't need eyes.
In melancholy and excitement I bade in hills of emotion, and for once, my mortal enemy, my weakness, I welcome you.
I smell your intentions carefully as I learn to know your presence.
Your hair is grey with the wisdom of shared pain, and your skin is soft like a newborn ready to live another life.
I don't need eyes either.
Only heart.
To fight nature is my nature, for on this earth I am a moon, and how was I ever to learn the ways of the one admiring my mystique?
As I would admire them.
No grass to softly hold me tonight, only cold windows.
But strangely I have also found comfort in the passing by.