Saturday, 20 March 2010

A flower in an ocean.

Somebody once told me to look at the sky
And see past the shadows.
See it’s not so blue.
It’s vast and it’s empty and it’s falling fast.
For crying out loud
We’re falling fast.

And they told me to stop seeing colour
And they told me it’s all black and white
And they told me that blood is worth shedding
If it sweeps you into the night.

Somebody once told me to stand on a mountain
And see all the small people scurrying.
See them walking
And running
And hurrying
To a place they don’t need to be.
Cause it doesn’t matter if they’re there.
And it doesn’t matter if they’re here.
We’re all just scurrying to nowhere.

And they told me to stop seeing colour
Cause change is just going to be grey
And they told me it’s not worth living
When our lives are just washed away

Like a flower in an ocean
rolling in the storm.
Heading somewhere that is nowhere
to a place that cannot last.
For crying out loud
We’re falling fast.

Tuesday, 9 March 2010

The spectacles are talking again.

Sometimes I like big writing.
It's bold, and it shouts in your mind
like there are little people running around up there
carrying voice boxes on their shoulders.

Sometimes though, the smaller writing works best.
When you have to squint slightly,
then quickly run upstairs
leaving a desolate laptop buzzing to itself,
while you grab those lonely spectacles
lying dishevelled by the dog eared book you fell asleep on last night.

While you're there though, a twinge of guilt hits you.
That book, it was almost new last night.
The corners were only slightly upturned and the creases not quite so fatal.
Now they're like you got a compass and carefully scarred the cover
with that evil look in your eye.
The one you imagine anybody with a homocidal thought towards a book would have.
Worse than a murderer.

So now you're stuck in these encapsulating thoughts
and the spectacles are hanging wearily from your hand.
"She's thinking about rescuscitating that book isn't she...
She knows it's too late.
Those pages can't be folded back into perplexing straightness.
Look at them. So forlorn. Curled around the endless tails of her thoughts.
Endless tails attached to endless creatures with voice boxes on their shoulders."

And so I must surmise that smaller writing
should only be used for those not easily distracted
by the wise voice of their spectacles
or the dying book half buried under their pillow.

But then again...
When you write with larger writing,
you end up gambling
on what you wrote before
And then, really, you're just rambling
as your thoughts disappear to a netherland up-screen.

But that's just crazy.

I want to walk around in circles all day;
metaphorical though.
Otherwise I might get bored.

I want to burrow out my mind,
Cause it's not normal.
Full of idiosyncracies, but the kind no one else knows.

I want to dig holes in the ground
and plant lily's that smell like roses.
Lily's are prettier. But roses; I like the smell.

I want to mismatch the world.
I like boys that smell nice and girls that like mud.
I like blankets that don't make you too hot.
I like tea in the sun
and ice cubes placed carefully on tables.
They're so graceful when they melt.

I think perhaps my perfect world
would be the one inside my head.
But sometimes, it goes black and white, with blurry lines, and everything's a statue.
And then what?
I guess I'll be stuck.

I'll have to imagine it's a lily when I shut my eyes and smell the rose. But that's just crazy.

Monday, 8 March 2010


Fly with your problems,
Cause I got mine...
I guess I don't dress it down.
But you know,
empathy,it's a powerful thing.
People's hearts pump faster with the pain.
Arteries straining under crimson tears.
Hold on tight.
I feel the force behind your fears.

But, girl, I'll love you just the same.
the fun's not in the game.
Life is real
but it's pointless just the same.
Cause I can see it in your eyes sometimes,
that heated thirst before you cry.

You're falling from grace,
and I don't know where to be
when I try to catch you.
Just don't lose your face;
it's a beautiful thing
Yeah, I see the shadows chasing you...
Secrets too far from the horizon
to keep you out of danger.
I can't be your saviour.
But I'll try, girl, I'll try.

And I'll love you just the same.
I am your rock.
Your sanity.
The arms beyond the vanity
that the world won't let go.
And when you take your costume off
after the show
I'll still love you...
Roses aren't dead 'til they fall to the ground.
You're beautiful, yes? Now don't make a sound.

Wednesday, 24 February 2010


I'm standing in the open and I'm stepping out my clothes;
I'm taking off this make-up and I'm dropping this pose.
I'm walking in bare feet, and I'm throwing back my head.
I'm running round in circles.
You're staring straight ahead.

And if you saw beauty right infront of your eyes;
Thundrous blankets,
Rolling mist,
The vastness of the sky...
Dew falling from a blade of grass;
A crimson sun on broken glass,
You'd say what's in a moment, when a moment leaves so fast.

I'm telling you a buzzard is soaring overhead
It's wings soaring through a space
I wish I could be instead.
You say that it's clichéd,
the beauty that I see.
It's been devalued through time.
By who, humanity?
Or the people who see beauty that sets them free?
Everyday, it's cliché,
And I'm not perfect, but I'm me.

So I'm stepping off the pedestal you put me on when I was small.
I'm telling you that words won't make me trip and fall,
but let me unveil a feeling I can't say.
It's not logical or methodical, but it could blow you away.
It's not science or fact,
Just a smile in the sway
Of the skeletal trees.
Of the pastel hills.
Of a sun breaking through
In rays, onto fields.
Of a butterfly, or the moon,
Or the sweeping stars.
Or the beat of a tune
that we can call ours.

You'd say what's in a moment, when a moment leaves so fast?
A second of understanding in a universe too vast.
A vision of life without scouring the past.
A cliché, everyday, that you hope just might last.

I'm standing in the open and I'm stepping out my clothes;
I'm taking off this make-up and I'm dropping this pose.
I'm walking in bare feet, and I'm throwing back my head.
I'm running round in circles.
You're staring straight ahead.

Just breathe. Just see. It doesn't have to make sense.
Silence speaks volumes when you wander the unsaid.

Sunday, 10 January 2010

Indigo heartbeats.

For you Joe...

Indigo is falling from the night into your arms,
The scarlet moon is sinking from the irony of charm;
You never claimed to own it, but still you set this world alight.
I'm rippling in a haze, in the fire of the night.

Run along the fields; kick up the powdered snow.
Hold me in the shadows of the ribbons in the show.
And dance with me now, in the obscured grey:
The sun will soon rise and we'll be caught in the rays;
Caught in the dew of those azure days.

So I listen to the storm screaming in the sky,
The slate turns into sunset. It's the beauty of your rhyme.
Indigo is falling, with your lips pressed to mine.
Indigo is falling; our heartbeats in time.

Friday, 30 October 2009


I miss the days of
flashes of white teeth.
Of red lips like cherries -
inferring nothing.
Meaningless brushes of skin.

I miss getting goosebumps over the idea
of first snow...
Not being judged for letting the wind
blow my mind away.

I miss dancing
and not caring about the eyes
set upon my twirling form.
Twirling with the leaves of autumn;
the rays of summer;
the skips of spring, the steam of winter.

I miss how things were,
before I realised the truth that stole the magic.
Smuggled it away like the ticking
of the clock. Fused and ready.

I miss being enough;
don't you?