Poetry: Lover

Lover is a dirty word
it’s untrue
and I like it.
I want
until I have
then I’m done
and I’m gone.
Emotions change
with my mood;
they are weather,
they are waves,
I am waging war forever
within myself.
Lover never.
Lover ever. 

Poetry: Sunday Evening Blues.

Internal organs and
skin and
weak bones are
bathed in glory and
basked in sunshine.

Dancing aches and
an insight into a heart and
you’re too far broken.

I cannot conclude.

My ribcage is too exposed
to threat and intrusion.
I do not care for it
and I don’t think
I can.

I just wish
for
touch
soon. 

Poetry: Ice

Take me home
away from the cold
to the fire,
to the hearth of it all.
Take my ribcage
into the palms
of your hands,
let them leave trails like frost.
Run your finger
down my spine
let it sit,
let it stay.
Pull me from
the icy grasps of jealousy,
the sting of being left outside in the snow.

Poetry: You Are

You are the itch on the inside of a vital organ,

the clench of a fist,

the stretch of a hand,

the crease of a brow,

the hot steam of caffeine,

the cold sting of a glass bottle.

An opened mail,

an empty message,

a hollow eye.

Poetry: Human

Bewildered, we travel

all whirring mechanisms,

all guns blazing.

A burning fire that eventually, like all things,

will fade away.

We falter and splinter into smaller and weaker parts.

Each second chisels away at our hearts until there is little left

but an empty space

where the cogs used to whirr.

Words: Train

I want to board a fast train that will take me to somewhere I’ve never heard of before. It wouldn’t be difficult, I don’t know very much about places. I’d like to listen to the disembodied voice of the person I’ll never meet announcing the names of the places that I’ll never see on the route I’ve never taken through bleary, early morning ears. I’d like to lock eyes with the boy who’s as exhausted as I across the cabin and spend the next few hours and a minute that evening wishing I had spent more time looking at the creases of his mouth and memorising the slope of his shoulders. I’d like to leave a coffee ring on the last piece of good writing paper I own and immediately regret being so clumsy with my belongings. I’d like to feel the freshness of anonymity.