the melodyfeel-keys under dancing fingertips.the emotion bursting from one's heart.the sunshine warm, and inviting. excitementas the song quickens.see-notes like fairies, as they fly off the page.a world full of blues and greens, interrupted byblack and white. one empty chair off to theside; waiting.hear-nothing but the music, like a storybookread aloud. a heartbeat in time with the melody.the rise and fall as the song changes moods.tears hit the ground.smell-fresh paper with a trace of lilac. the scentof early spring, and new life. the rain beforeit falls. dark chocolate and sweet vanillacupcakes.taste-the power of the music; it lingers in the air.vanilla and chocolate in perfect harmony. thedream of a determined soul; just a taste,nothing more.touch. look. listen. breathe. savor.
static words and turbulence."your deepdarksecrets will never compare to my filthy fragile sins." "we'll just see now won't we?"-4.crash.you share perfection with desperate city skylines and pretty eggshell bones. scars rest on sweet skin and ashes. blood will crash through unsuspecting veins. the walls can only be built so high.[i can hear you spinning, swerving, laughing, crashing cr
Goodbye, I think.[I want to be remembered just like you want to be forgotten.]01. Your pupils remind me of ink splotches. The blacks melting into the milkybrowns, pupils that could be perfectly round but aren't. I'd like to think they lookalmost heart-shaped. But then again, you're not the one in love.-02. You told me once, that the hardest thing to do in life is to walk away fromsomething you care about. But what if I told you it gets easy if you say you're sorryfirst. Not that an apology will make everything alright.-03. Empty dial tones and static keep the world a mystery. My world anyway.Your letters are always
ForegroundFour thirty AMI am standing in my kitchenwearing my dark blue dressing gownbuilding a time machinefrom assorted cutleryand a broken microwave.I am visiting youthree years ago.I have calendars for youwith notes written each day:some are highlighted orangeto show you when to ignorethe things I say.Others are circled blue,and on these occasionsI meant every word.I am smiling at you,already knowing the day you leaveI will understandin time, despite what I say.You look at me quizzically:bemused by this odd smiling.Its four years later:upsetting things we saidseem like empty noise,instinctive animal-thrashingsagainst the inevitable.Clockhands and calendars are arbitrary.Its now fourteen years later:you are fond memories,all golden, sepia-toned,like a creature held in amber.Then its last year again,its spring and also autumnand Im sleeping off my bruises,and waltzing round the cherry-treesthat grow in groves at Cornwall park.&
girls like megirls like me will always,without fail, fall forstarry-eyed boys like you.our souls are set, dead-seton clinging to any possiblecharming word you care to utter.so with that heart-stoppinglazy grin you flashed me, you tookme under your wing. but after a while,your winter heart began snowing downupon that summertime place inside ityou once told me was mine.and so many girls,oh, so, so many girlswould sob and jerk away from your grasp.i'll play the-one-that-didn't-noticeand just hold you tighterwhen i strike you with answering hail.and as your eyes widen withabrupt, shocked realizationi will sneer and laugh,because that will properlyteach you how to dealwith girls like me.and then, when girlslike me go home,we cry.
Train taint constraint conceitIa train journeynight, she sits serene on the opposite seat,and her gaze drifts toskybirds on thermals soaring swooping emotionless joyful.advancing, the Inspector of Tickets, the Taker of Faresin his municipal in his green and strident waistcoat authoritarianstride peaked cap tickets please tickets please ticketsplease,she doesn't have a ticket. moneyis alien-tainted hate-polluted isn't worth a damnto her, let alone railway tickets.she calls me to the open window – So she jumps as the train starts to slow - So she glides to the groundand turns to me calling follow.with her - i don't know, notwith her voice at any rate. hidden nowby a wooded glade still calling
Dear SteveDear Steve,It wasn't anything like I imagined it would be. I can't remember when they started talking about it, but I remember switching on the television one morning a few weeks ago and the news was full of it, and I realised that they had been for a while. World leaders were meeting to discuss potential solutions to the problem. In talk shows experts were interviewed, religious leaders consulted.But life carried on. I still went to work, early on at least. I still got stuck in the traffic around Carnon Downs. Work wasn't flooded with a mass influx of panicked people. I don't think Gareth even bothered to pull down the emergency protocols manual from high on its shelf.Gradually the workload decreased. People stopped going to the doctor, fewer people were admitted. Nobody wanted blood tests any more.Eventually I stopped going to work. There was no point. I called in every day, just in case.I ended up watching people go to work in the morning, as they continue
Written LoveItalic represents the inner depths of our emotions, an endless well of truth. Within lies the rawest image of the self, the naked reality of vulnerability, doubt and discovery.Will I ever find love? Am I destined to be alone forever?It also depicts instant sparks of thought, blurted words mute to the world.Shes cute! I wonder if she could ever like someone like me. Did she just smile back at me? Was she being polite, or
?Bold equals bravery, chance and gamble; the lion heart in which shaky words express daring suggestions, challenging the fate of solitude.Want to go for a coffee sometime?Can I call you again?Bold lettering calls for faith, hope and trust. Self esteem brings it out, jumping from the white of paper, but even the timid can brave life with its encouraging energy.Underline is exclamation. It is the reaction to news, the call of passion or the declaration of triumph. It can be coupled with t
i want to need to need to wantI need: double A batteries,a screwdriver, and a bottleof gin. Make that a double.Make me a sandwich, extrarum. Make me an alcoholic.Kill my liver. Hello, cirrhosis.You know how much I hatepoison, hate you. You knowhow much I needI need: five more minutes,please. I need: to write apoem that makes sense. Ineed: somebody to tell mehow "needing" differs from"wanting", how "addiction"differs from "obsession" orhow "you" differs from youI want: the one without quotation marks
Destroy This PoemDestroy This PoemTo the person grading this poemTo the kind, patient woman hovering over this with a penWaiting to say kind, patient words in response, do me a favor:Stop it.Dont Patronize me.I did not slave over this with hammer and anvilShaping it into a masterpiece.I didnt paint it onto the ceiling of some church,Going blind from the pain and the stress.I didnt even turn this in on time.And while Im writing this in my fifth-period economy class,You can bet Im not concerned with iambs and troches and Italian terza rima.No, Im concerned with how much water is left in my water bottle.This isnt a masterpiece.Who are we kidding?Youre not going to hurt it, and you most certainly arent going to hurt me.Stop it.Dont patronize me.I want you to destroy my work.I want you to rip it to shreds with sadistic dominatrix glee.Tear it apart from margin to margin;Laugh openly at its crippled, struggling body.Stab throu