cautious and well in reach
the badminton flying thing
unfolds into the air

yet props have commented on
without equity
upon the game and
sit
still while a grunge era
          
is reborn

and fallopian tubes
become the cause
of my paranoia.

we
          are
not
         the
same


        and i hope
we never are.

       you
worthless
     hopeless
undeserving
      awful
monster.

we
          are
not
         the
same.

it is to look into a glass box at people
When the glass box does not exist
It is hollow like the shell of
A crab who has long left,
Like the love of a
Love that has been since long loved
It is to wonder what bridges the vast canyon
From you alone to them laughing;
It is to ask and to become the buzzing question of
what is so wrong that we cannot do this?
(you)

It is to eye into a glass and
realise you do not know what should be there
It is like a wonder that has no
where to be and nowhere to go
like the awe of a new morning
that quickly vanishes with harsh night
It is to ask what must be causing headache
it is to ask what must be causing heartache
It is to question why to try in a land where
the only person you know is
(you)

when words fail you
silence smothers you
fears surround you
you borrow inside yourself


                   waiting


                              till that special friend

                         brings you back

your heart and mind

I have loved you
From the moment our eyes
Met across the crowded street
On that scorching summer day

And though summer
Soon came to a bitter end
I have loved you through
Every season ever since

And I guess I always will

"at least you aren't gonna body slam me
i'd die if you body slam me"
WHAAAT

How do I write a poem about the fact that in my childhood bedroom I had about 10 glow-in-the-dark stars blue-tacked to my ceiling, and that I could touch them if I stood on my bed on my tippy toes, and now, in my 3rd year of university, in the the house I rent with my friends, I have ridiculously high ceilings and a projector that shows me a galaxy?

How do I describe the feeling of staring into the bathroom mirror at my 20 year old reflection and seeing the ghost of my younger self looking back at me from behind my bloodshot eyes? We both stand there at two thirty in the morning with tears running down our cheeks, our hands angrily ****** in our hair and our stomachs ****** in to the point of pain. I can't tell her that it'll stop, because it hasn't.

The dreams she had slip further and further away from me. I can't reach the stars anymore.

i’m wounded. I can’t tell where or how bad it is but there’s blood and, a lot of it. i think this is called shock. there’s no way this is real. there’s no way you’re holding the knife. there’s no way i’m still finding comfort in your sick and twisted smile. those hands were just on my thighs. those hands just engulfed my entire being, and then ripped a piece of me to take with. In all reality, i  didn’t know i had anything left to give. With you i go. No questions asked. You could (and have) led me through hell, i had no idea that it’d be up to me and me alone,  to lead us both back. (i wouldn’t change a thing) where did you go? i can still feel your lips on my skin. a nightmare that i never want to stop, i don’t even know when it began. We were euphoric. Too good to be true. i gave you all i had left. I’m sorry. I’ll take it back. I’m not your burden to hold.  F*, i I never thought you’d decide i was too much for you.