You’re secretly sexy, you texted,

After our sweaty session.

I don’t know what it means, I thought.

But I like it.

A lot.

You used to call me hotstuff.

God, I love the way you lie.

When I said, "check out my fat ass."

You replied, “phat”.

Dammit, why did you have to play me like that?

Thinking back on it, what did I call you?

Here’s a few:

Asshole

Sociopath

Douche

Liar

Scumbag

Sorry, I guess I was kinda rude.

But what can I say?

I liked you.

Missing you comes in waves.

First it is the little things.

Your jokes, your laughter, the twinkle in your eye,

the smile you give me before saying goodnight.

They are gentle laps of water at the shore,

leaving me wanting, yearning for more.

But then, the longing grows.

I remember whispered conversations behind closed doors,

and fleeting glances from across the dance floor.

The sea is no longer calm and at peace;

instead it whirls and churns, the waves threatening to consume me.

Now I gasp for air, as it all becomes too much.

I feel the ghost of your touch, and electricity dances across my skin,

causing what-ifs and what-could-have-beens to make my head spin.

They are tsunami waves now, rising high,

and I am drowning, in the remains of goodbye.

Anything else to write?

An emotion?

Some random subject matter

Might entice?

I mean-what do I wanna say?

Trying to chill

But I’m so uphill

As my leg trembles &

Thoughts run away

Damn...

There are words just

Below the surface

I know I scribbled this on purpose...

Aww what the hell

Fuck this...

...Mellow rock instrumentation

Mild rhythmic syncopation...

Fading gentle

Scratchy acoustic echoes...

Inspiration shines & away She goes...

They tell us the boxes keep us safe. They give our society order, structure. Everyone has a place, a slot to fit into so that the machine keeps working.

We all live in boxes. Confined to four walls - our ideas, dreams and feelings are enchained, their wings bound so they cannot escape. If you don’t fit into a box, they take you away - no one knows where.

That’s what happened to Martha. Sweet, naïve little Martha, who thought she could be both a scientist and a musician.

She was wrong.

They came knocking at her door, clad in black armour and armed with tasers. They dragged her away as she kicked and screamed, and tossed her in the back of their van as if she were trash.

Because if you didn’t follow the rules, and pick a box, that’s what you were.

Trash.

I don’t know what happened to Martha; we don’t talk about her anymore. But sometimes, at night, I still hear the screams of the little girl, taken away because she refused to be put into a box.

My angel of death has no wings.

Instead, he has hair the colour of night and eyes that carry the oceans in their depths.

His smile, warm and inviting, is a knife in my gut.

My angel of death is no stranger.

Rather, he is the one I loved with a burning flame,

a flame that even now, has not faded to embers.

My angel of death does not tell me my time has come.

Instead, he is the one that whispers, ‘Momento mori’ into my ear,

for everything must come to an end.

My angel of death does not treat me gently.

Instead he breaks my heart, shattering it into shards of glass

that bury themselves into me everytime I breathe.

My angel of death does not lead me into the afterlife.

Instead, he lets me continue to walk the earth.

For while my heart may be broken, the pieces still beat.

My angel of death does not take my soul.

Instead, he saves my life, taking the bullet for me.

He may not be an angel of death, reaping souls from their casings,

But he was my angel, and now he is dead.

My love will forever last,

Don’t let me go,

If you do I fall fast,

Fast out my window.

Once I love you,

I will never stop caring,

When you walk through,

That door or look to me glaring.

I will love you forever,

Protect you at any cost,

You could love me never,

But without you I am lost.

My love will protect you,

And forever be true.

There isn't a sound.

No sobs wracking my body, no cries of misery echoing on the tiles.

Instead there's silence, except for my shallow breathing, so soft only I can hear it.

But there are tears.

They never stop, flowing down my cheeks, leaving glistening tracks in their wake.

Mother always tells me I look beautiful when I cry, and that I should have gotten a job as mourner. Maybe I should have listened to her. At least then we'd have had the money to pay our bills.

At least then I'd have had the money to pay for her funeral.

But instead, I find myself sitting in the bathroom, legs tucked up under me and drowning in the weight of the silence.

I wonder if drowning in the silence would be better than drowning in my tears.

We have the right

to write

morning or night

daylight or dark

with passsion or on a lark

no one can tell you what to do

it’s strictly up to you

bend a noun

don’t frown

don’t clown

stick around

what’s that sound

it’s a verb

absurd

so what is next in line

will or may not be fine

for we wear on our sleeve

every single adjective

and all the phrases put in place

really are not designed for the human race

but just for self to contemplate,

as you sit and sit

wait and wait

for new words to fall from the brain

even when standing in the rain

or watching a passing train

what is in a word you say

worry not this day

just take your right

to write

don’t fight

and create the need inside your heart

and that is the word that gives you the start

to lay it all open for all to read

for isn’t that the very first seed

no my friend worry not this time

your poem can be straight or in rhyme

just do what you do

the hell with the rest

and bring out

your very best.