I sat down to write about how you made me feel, Funny,   I thought something indescribeable  would be easy to explain

For the longest time I was In a dark place. With weights of lead bound around my heart. The inside of my skull became  walls that I was forced  to scream at  my flesh  was a barrier to letting the happyness out, my fingers   gripping cold steal triggers trembling pleading to let the grey  matter out
To decorate the walls in my own shade of misery.  
But I'm here
Breathing

It's strange,  for a boy who never leave his room. To sit Under his washing line and listen to the birds  sing. I lie on butter cups as I watch clouds dart between wire and cotton, how did I get here?
What God did I pray too?
Who did I pay?

When my world  was over. My pistol In my hand. You happened.
The cloud that had allways sat just out of sight came running. Galloping . To give me water.  To give me life,

A blue eyed blonde haired mirror of myself emerged,
Your smile Is warm. And kind. Like the evening sun I write this in,
Your touch was wholesome. And craved, you took the freyed edges of the tapastry that had become  my life and started to spin a new story. You took the lead weights  from my heart and melted them  into sinkers so we could catch stories with our fingers,  your skin felt like silk that I could never afford.
With each step  you danced on egg shells as you try  collect my broken pieces
And when a part of my was missing you filled it with a part of you. And now I find myself intertwined.
Here in this warm glow I notice something I've never had before.
The voices In my head have  stopped chiming.  The cries are far away.
Your gifts  have  not stopped coming.  I pray your here to stay
In less time then anyone has ever been in my life you have done so much more,   in less time then it took to knock me down you've built me into something more
I'll never forget the way I feel right now, here. Today.
Because each and every time I see you.
I know I'll stay this way

Poet or not; sometimes the meaning you form
From my words sting.

Perhaps. Sound spoken; merely
The rythmic motority

Of a machine -broken pistons, freyed wiring-
That take kind thoughts clean and pure and dispense

Words that hurt like
Soap in
A baby's eyes.

Its 6:01, Farringdon Platform 1
Shattered souls craned necks
And twiddling thumbs.

The fool in the know.
The first to know; the last to accept it.

Here stood reflecting.
Silently condemning a life accepted
Reams of fleeces overground and understated.
Shrouded from sheering myself.

The fool in the know.
The first to know; the last to accept it.

How my hem has freyed
No, not from loft today
Through rubbing ankles under desks,
To metamorphose
To a child cocooned blanket bound
Rubbing ankles dreaming sound
I dream as the child dreamt
As a baby longed to feel
      I long for what I have felt

Sometimes I feel like I’m made of thread
I’m sewing up my freyed parts
With the strings I’m made of

Look too deep
Into my eyes a empty  sea. Where freyed trauma's and torn pages. Is all you see.
Crumbled together just as the author created. Fragmented beams drifting into the veins of my eyes.
Every emotion,every piece all beginning to collide. Surfacing into glamour. Imagination's playground. All traumatically dark,deemed sour. Keeping me away from the light,where hate is found.  
Where the surge of power is dilluted within the dark.
A ignited spark is all it takes. To rehabilitate the fire within my eyes.
Look too deep. To the     emptiness that never seems to cease. The light within the cracks that always seem to breath. Even if I don't want it to be. The light that always repeats finally helps me see.

You could afford a pink bathroom
But had a freyed t- shirt
You sapped bitter
And had manacial 1970s whiskers
But I'm interested in your mind
I am quite listenable
I want to taste your Thunderberg wine
And deserve to be sanquinely addressed by you.

When will they see me, a pretty, pink rose petal?

The urge to handle gently, and smooth me through their finger tips.
Or the urge to destroy, rip me piece by piece, and muddle me under their shoe.

It seems I am not worthy of such instincts.

Innocently, you pull me from my stem, with the intention to behold and cherish me. I forget to ask if, perhaps, you'd like my flower too. I mistake your innocence for love.

In your pocket I am kept. You feel better knowing I am close. I am happy to be close. You smile everytime you think of me. How sweet. You wish to hold onto me forever. How kind.

Naivety, you forget I am a petal, or perhaps you never even knew. You forget to put me in the pages of your book. I must be warm inside your dark, denim pocket...

When I am remembered, it's too late. The washer has run me through. I am *****. I am broken. I am no longer a petal.

When will they see me, a tragic, wilted rose petal?

The urge to put me to rest peacefully, to cherish the beautiful memories, to pray for regrowth as they lay me gently in the garden.
Or the urge to cringe at my crinkled mess, toss me in the garbage, rinse me from my vase, sweep up every nagging speck of me from their floor.

It seems I am only shame.

The love for me, you regret. Mistakenly, you thought I could be forever on my own, but pink does not become brighter in the dark. I am left, decayed, freyed, a mess. Your tears fall only for the petal I am not.

You don't claim the jeans with the pocket...
Knowing you did something wrong, and knowing no one else can make it right.

You grow from your mistakes. I rot.