I could see your hands glowing, in the dark they stood out like like a lighthouse along the southern coast.
I think you honestly believed you could heal, but delusions are like trees in the forest.
I feel for you, honestly, but please let go of the dreams, and fast.
The wallpaper was too busy, yellow with white and brown stripes, not suitable for a child, leaving scars like hitting the head on a radiator repeatedly, only more subtle, and less blood.
These days collar bones turns me on, and shoulders, and hip bones if not too hidden in fat, and attached to a woman of my fancy, covered somewhat.
They need to please my eye, more than my mind and heart, the radiator is to blame, me thinks, as a striped wallpaper never would do any permanent harm…
You will have no way of knowing, without scratching the surface.
Nothing can be seen, no one can be heard, until the ice is broken.
Do you trust them? I don’t, never will.
They say the truth is closer than you know, you just have to scratch the surface, and it will all be revealed.
Bollocks.
Sun-kissed and birdsong
not doubting I’m in love – proper
the sweetest kiss and the
everlasting love I found
fading fast as I awake
My exploded chest folds
back into place and
hibernates
I did not know what I wanted – then
I do not know what I want – now
Will I ever know?
At the Grand Central you’ll
meet The Maker and
he’ll be driving a cab taking
you further than you’ve ever
been, deeper than you’d ever go, but
are you still fulfilling your dream?
once more we face
the end of the
the world as we
know it and we
can no longer go
on as we did so
we have to change to
improve to forgive and
forget but honestly it
is just the same shit but
a different year
There were compatibility issues
and too much drink
The desire to escape
when rooting would have helped
You spoke with your mouth and
I heard voices in my head
disjointed messages coming
from the dead
Though you were the gifted one
the fickle gods curse
you gave up your life’s purpose
in search for normality
in your own words
The story was a simple one,
fit to be read to a child,
but it ended with a cat running off
into the woods never to return again.
The story made him sad so sad, he
didn’t want to hear it no more. He
told them so, in words and with
tears, time and time again, to no
avail.
The scars still itch, deep down
inside, but scratching’s not possible
now. He’s given up hope on finding
the cat, but the bully is dead,
thank god.
The line is fine
between mad and
divine and yet there is
space for all to reside
between opposite
sides through
limits of mind
crossing the line a
second nature of mine
