The soul of a writer is as tormented as the clash of tides in the sea.
There is an ongoing battle between what is right and what is wrong.
The writer's mind experiences an unexplainable turmoil of raging emotions.
There is no escape from the cages that surround the heart except for writing... writing till the words bleed with truth.
Till the colour of the ink becomes the colour of their soul.

i wish i could tell you why i am this way,
why i see you and love you and still want to rip you to shreds

i look inward and backwards and beyond
and i see a young woman, a little girl, a grandma -
all of them intertwining fear and love,
sewing the edges together with stitches as they
sit by a fire and watch the quilts of their lives converge

each one beautiful, each one tragic, each one alone -
always wondering whether any outside eyes will ever
look past all of the complexities to see the simple truth -
we're all just looking for love without toxicity,
for love without contingency, for love without jealousy

i want you to look me in the eyes and see my faults
and love me regardless of the blood that drips from
my fingertips from pricking myself time and time again
with the quilting needle that's pieced together my sad story

i want you to know that my insides have been stolen
from me since before i can remember, and i may be
nothing if not afraid but i've learned that bravery is the
best mask out there, and that sometimes people are
worth trusting, and that maybe if i don't rip you to shreds
i might look into your eyes for awhile and find home

I thought you'd be different, I told myself as I lie awake at 2am
So many different qualities I found in you than I hadn't found in anyone else
I was hesitant to talk to you, since you didn't really fit my type
But I was so glad I did, because you turned out to be amazing
Or so I thought
We spoke everyday for hours and hours
Never wanting to go to sleep so the conversations would never end
I was lucky enough to have been able to hang out with you twice only to be left with a hug and a delay in our messages for a day or two
We kept talking as the months went on and eventually I went back to school
The texting faded, just like it had with everyone else
I felt like history was repeating itself
When we did talk sparks flew like they always had and it was back to not wanting to say goodbye
And even getting to FaceTime with you made my day, er, my week
But now I'm done
I'm done being the first to say hi
I'm done being the only one to put in the effort
Don't complain to me that you were so lonely on Valentine's Day because we could've done something even though I couldn't have been there
I honestly thought you'd be the one person I wouldn't be writing about
Yet I always wake up at 2 in the morning thinking about you and what we could've been

darling,

lift that fingertip away from your scars
and trace these ragged map-lines instead
here, here are better roads to take
than loneliness

so maybe your knuckle feels much too bare
but know that our fingers are not made to sit waiting
for a ring –
they are built to hold

so hold – find another set of fingers
grasping for a stronger pair of hands
there is nothing more beautiful than two small limbs
making a home in each other

or better yet, when your bones feel
too big for his too-full arms and too brittle
for the weight of your sadness
hold yourself together, never let go

when the night is too full of night
to see the stars, take a mirror and try to
search for the starstuff in you

you. the point between history and tomorrow
the most graceful of reckonings
the steady hum of *more, more beneath cracking skin
you. the sum of all things soft and true  

and remember: those bones were never built to
shoulder the world
they were only ever meant
to carry you

Blossoms billow in slow-motion
Tender petals sigh to the ground
Cushioned upon a sunny breeze
And fat bees and lazy bluebottles
Are snoring gently
Bouncing softly
From bloom to gorgeous bloom
Glad-ragged and gleaming
In their gaudiest glory
And neon dragonflies drone
Adding to the sonerous  chorus
As they skim a sweltering pool
Where carp break the surface
Idly basking in the heat
There is a blackbird clarinetting
From the top of a nearby tree
And high-summer aromas
Pervade the shimmering air
And, just for this moment
Time itself stands still

                            By Phil Roberts