Tonight, in this moonlight.
I watch from afar,
as you fall in love with every star-
each a burning enthralling sight-
me a body full of water,
bone and mass;
your eye never shining me light.

In my head there is a bed full of roses.
Erected,
reaching for hope,
in all sorts of poses.
Some white, some red.
Others wilt, sad,
lying dead- out of dances

Days getting colder,
My heart a big ball of broken down smoulder,
Ice all over.
My heart clear, see through, the whitest cellophane.
My heart aching in reminder, May rang.
A phone call like no other, rather a goodbye.
Winter later called in to say hi.

Tend the flowers in your heart.
Mend them.
Give them time to sow.
Allow them to grow.

Having little love for yourself,
Is almost like having no room in your shoes to grow; or to be comfortable.
It’s the same as a plant needing a bigger *** to thrive and for its roots to grow.
Having little love for yourself doesn’t mean you need to hide in the dark of your own show; your life.
Having little love for yourself is like trapping your heart and mind into a cage together, seamlessly squashed, claustrophobic.
So of course you’re going to feel down,
And of course some days you won’t feel confident.
These days are aloud to happen.
But, you have to have power in yourself to let a new day roll in.
Unlock the cage, let the bird roam free for a while.
And breathe. And laugh. And stay social.
And do what makes you happy. And; most of all, keep the door to the cage of your heart open to yourself, and only yourself. And practice. Practise your love. Your self love.

I shout aloud I love you- but you never hear.
Nor were you close enough.
I could never reach you,
Up and out there, living.
Most days I just wanted a kiss from you to taste your solar flares.
To risk my life.
To feel just one touch of you.
Yet, here we are, in one galaxy, living in different dimensions as it feels; with a hundred million miles between us.
Sun, why cannot we become one?

I love how clouds look like draped curtains- the fairytale type.
I find it enthralling that most look like a heavy mass, puffy and angry- yet only a body of water and air.
I love how they live memories.
How they shape the sky, as if they were blankets- comforting.
How they wear and reflect the sunset.
How they never sleep, enduring long days and nights.
I love that there are so many types of clouds, almost like different races.
I love how uniquely (but simply) that they are made.
I love that they are live art, an installation.
I love that they are in this world, my world.