The shadows encircling my eyes
cannot be dispersed by the sun.
I allow myself to drown in moonlight,
the notes playing on in the dark.
The sun gives up, letting the hail hurtle down,
softening to rain as if to say sorry.
Gusts of wind blow delicate pink petals
accross my tarmac drive.
Doting, loyal eyes watch me carefully,
her uncomprehending tail swaying in the dulled room.
The music carries on throughout,
my brain letting my heart take over my fingers.
The wind and rain fade back into the earth
letting the sun out for one more try.

Today is not the day for dreams or dancing
It is not the day for love or tears.
Tomorrow will not be the day to voice your views.
And it will not be the day to face your fears.

The day to follow your heart
And to smile at strangers
Was yesterday my friend.
Not today

Every now and again, i wake up and feel as though i'm joining in the same game as everyone else, but the rules i know are slightly different. I play their game because that's what everyone else seems to know. Secretly I prefer my version, my rules, but no-one else seems to enjoy it as much as i do; I can only play my game alone. They don't want to abandon the game they know,the tricks they've learnt, the other people playing it.
So I continue to play by other people's rules, playing out alternative versions in my head, hoping that one day, someone will want to join in.

Your dreams are few and far between
passing in and out of shadows that dim their sheen.
Your swirling knowledge is true but frail
leaving your faith to grasp at its tail.

The wings of your angels are broken and torn
they cannot save you, their legs are worn.
So dust off your smile, cloud this mysterious world,
forget your lost faith and use your fear as gold.

Raise your head, and open your ears, your eyes
Obeserve the people around you, have you noticed their cries?
Feel the storms and the calm, use your tears to relieve.
Just let them know you’re here, you don’t have to believe.

Sometimes I picture it like water dripping out of a barrell. No matter how much I turn the tap, it won't stop leaking. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but its always seeping out.
I thought I'd gradually refilled the barrell, fixed the tap...I had. But one unexplainable action, a mistake I suppose, and now the tap is broken again. I know how to fix it but somehow it doesn't seem so easy this time.
Meanwhile, the water drips.

What is it that I talk of?
Self esteem.

The sky here is so clear at night. Not sure i can describe the beauty of the stars.
My skin is still numb from the cold, creeping inwards from the outside.
I thought i was forgetting how to feel...consoling and sympathising, yet refusing to immerse myself, determined to be detached.
But in the absence of night clouds, i'm left in awe.
I haven't captured, and can't release the words. Paint and music fail me.
They draw me away, pull out the tears.

Take what you will or can from my words.
I can't explain the only thing that makes sense to me

are you someone to make it all go away?
protect me from the cruel harsh world
to wrap me up in your skin.
take me to a place where i can hide
i tried the place where everyone else seems to go
i didn't fit in there
so im finding my own secret place
come with me?

I have nothing to say anymore. I'm empty.
Is there anything to fill?
I need some magic, call up the spirits.
Did you train the light that follows your words?
Or is it a process of diffusion, balancing out the darkness before them.
Does the beat of your step echo in your dreams?
Promise to me lend me your angels.
Do you feel the same as the people you touch?
Don't read my confused eyes.
I'm empty. I have nothing of worth to say to you.

On a silent autumn morning in my corner of the world.
A red balloon floated accross the nervous velvet grass.
Under no ones' control but the wind.
A visiting stranger in a beautiful land.
It hung for just a moment, hesitant as to where to go
and then, just like that
it was gone.

Playing with Fairies

The moon was large as I had tea with angels.
Playing out conversations I’d made up when I was a girl.
A book was missing from the shelf.
Dust fairies had pushed it out.

The angels and I wandered through clouds of dandelions,
Searching for the missing book.
For our clue we found a trail of buttons.
The gentle laugh of the angels was a beautiful sound.

We followed this trail on and on.
It ended at a well.
We peered inside but there was nothing but weeds.
As we turned to leave I tripped and fell.

An angel knelt down to help me up.
He discovered a note lying in the grass.
We tried to read it but it didn’t make sense.
Someone realised it was a picture drawn in letters.

We went back home to decipher the page.
The picture was of a smile.
To our delight the book had returned home too.
Put neatly back in its place.

The dust fairies had pulled it back in
As a surprise for the angels and me.
The only evidence was the disturbed dust
And a cunning letter smile.

Reflections

So enraptured by your reflection. I was content to just have that because if I turned around it might confirm your existence. I would have to accept that you were real and I would no longer have an excuse to say “no”.

Sometimes I'm just so angry at people and the world, but i have no idea why
and all I can do to make myself better is to break useless things and to let myself cry.
I wonder if any really knows me, and why I automatically hide feelings away
concerned eyes and caring hands ask me what's wrong and I hesitate to say.
I don't want to tell them, I can't be bothered to make them to see
Sometimes I just want to be left to myself, I just want people to let me be.

I heard an echo from within the dark.
I didn’t see you standing in the shadows,
concealed by coarse brick alleyways.

Could you save me from myself?
Force me to feel again?

Leaves flew round in whirlwinds,
mixed with the litter and dust.
Its low rustling and my heavy breathing the only sounds.

Did someone tell me I was beautiful once?
I think so.

She looked back over her long meandering life, wondering at the things she did and why she didn't do some things, but the one question that haunted her relentlessly,
Why did people care about someone who had done nothing more than offer them some good conversations and a little hope.

Is that all it took to fall in love?

She hoped so.

And in the end, will I ever have said something of consequence?
Even if not, somehow it doesn't matter.
It helps me, which allows me to help people who can't help themselves.
And that matters to me.