Tired old companions
Knowing with a nod
That the others not okay

Sliding flames, over steel and ice. Made from light breezes and slow realisations, to form half witted conscious and dumb tall lies.

Even in the height of all my failures, someone has loved me. Even in the height of all your failures, someone has love you, therefore we are not as bad or hopeless as we like to say we are.

I want us to touch the sky
See if we’ll die in the light

Give take
Share and make
The yielding didn’t work
And even out of time
You felt sublime
And I slunk away
After

- seriously you can’t kiss for shit mate, but you were about a seven.

Indifference is magnificent, it is the laughing and the shouting in your ear, that you couldn’t hear. The tap on the shoulder you didn’t feel, a slighter brush with death, that didn’t make you shiver. Embrace a little indifference.

I must be missing a lung. Leaving you was easy, but breathing in just got hard and breathing out prolonged.

Of all the people in the room, your smile afforded me with with joy. But through too much common sense and fear, I took the sly grin. At least I know the sly will leave, but what if I chose you and you did too.

An aqua light, to break the gloom. A darkness that cloaked the entire room. And clinking from something long forgotten, saved the person woe begotten.

- In the dream of the soul, the spirits vanish.

The cerulean mirror, reflects all desires and transgressions against the tide. Hiding the life and secrets of its lovers and visitors still through time, and tales of the red above.

- beneath the surface of evening the oceans sing.

He wants to take the next step, making your own legacy. And your going to have to give the excuse that kids don’t like you, tall and thin and angled, you’re a dummy who’s organs don’t work. But really you can’t roll out the legitimate truth.

The fact that the past four generations of your family suffered with mental illnesses, and you suspect that they all do really but you don’t talk about it, because it’s just not done. That your mum didn’t hear from her dad for a week and knew what she was going to find when she phoned the police to check on him.

The pills and the letters and the pain all coddled into one person. That your mother used you as a tissue and blanket and ensured that you thought crying and caring was weak.

That your uncle and their mother and their mothers mother all suffered from something as though the rotation of the DSM-IV is all your genes can really do. Different disorders at different ages, from the simple biological weakness. Washed up, wrinkled and looping. The only way to have this child would be to give it to someone else, until the crucial part is over and your influence can be at a minimum. But really you just set your lips in a straight line and tot out the fact that kids don’t like you, and you don’t like them.

I wish I had a stream of poetical unconscious thoughts, that would seize hold of me every once in a while. That way I could create something better, more meaningful than pretty. The aesthetic pleasure of certain words cannot take me as far as my brutality.

The far shores washed upon the formless men a miracle, of fruits made from wonder. The cautionary lies left to whittle the truth into their ribs, once the fruit is had complete free will is rendered.

Tempered tulips
Told me to
To tell you
That we were
Meant to be

I write a letters to myself as an expression in self admiration and love.

- I’ve written so many letters to myself. I can’t wait for the dates to come for me to open them. Next one the 6th of September.