And indebted.

And to what do I owe,
This beauty that has surrounded my waking hours of late,
The nightmares that lay in the resting hours laugh!
Yes, the words that surround me are of different voice,
Now my familiarity,
The world at my window now that of crisp, clear horizons,
Of the new, the west and exciting.
What power has given me what I once dreamt of,
Only to taunt at sleep, to claim that I owe?

''Oh hopelessness, oh loneliness, to search the ends of time''.
It sings, so quietly in the back of my mind,
It lay undisturbed, long gone in green light.
How might I go about clearing it, the dwelling and the dust?
What has nuzzled into my vein today is sweet and harmonious,
What lingers from before bitter, and alone.
Still i feel the clutching fingers, not cold, but slick and of grease,
I attempt reconnecting with the world before me,
It laughs behind my back and wills me to join it.

When you have lived a life, in the dark of the back street,
In the dim of a room well hidden by bed sheet,
The moon a beacon with vendetta;
To have a light, so graceful, not white,
Appear before you,
In welcome, in slight appreciation, in wanting of you,
You must owe.
There must be a force that has worked out a click in the pattern,
Has mis-stitched too late,
Has moved the stars ever so slightly,
So that you may indeed be granted a life like the other,
And you must owe.


The photographs of my loved ones must be stored for today,
I feel a slight shame in their gaze,
For here is the girl, who sort of disapeared,
And, really, was found too late.

The matter will settle,
Please, please don't speak of family.
I have worn myself to the bone,
And yet the public eye feel they see not enough,
My clothes simply do not hang,
And my eyes are plump and round,
A shine of health,
But the custom, the public, they ache over the bar,
They want to see pain and they want to see hunger.
These same vultures wish to pick at the flesh,
Wish to see more than is necassary,
Wish to tear it apart all the same.

Dedication, he has ruined the melancholy,
He has wrinkled the clothing,
And smoothed down the hair.

You see, my hair was slowly swallowing,
Sinking into life,
The sink before me swirled in sea water,
And, again, she spoke of the past.
The shine, the fool, the midnight travels,
And still she hung the blame in one place.
The creature started, it stirred and with the dying scheme,
Became a foaming monster,
Long dead and yet paraded before me,
Idly and comically.
Alas! The past I had so happily withdrawn from these past months,
Has been brought up, wrenched up, again!

I meet the strange on a daily basis,
I meet the suffering, converse with the no-goods.
Beauty and foul file in and out before me,
And still I am here behind dark wood.
"Yes, I don't mind, Yes, I am doing rather well".
But still the sinking thought,
Are they ever wondering?
I should not mind, I know, not another day of guilt or worry,
But somewhere they sit, as my fingers blue,
And they care not for my name, let alone my thought.
Yes, my years were consumed by the want of them,
And selfishly I never considered it was not of return.

My eyes have opened to the present, roughly and somewhat forced, his voice brings tears to my eyes, and I survey the Manor before us. Light has never been so settling, the evening drawing in; so tasteful. Never has genuine brick built such a fine exterior, never has such shimmering paper lined the in! You have ruined my writing, but you are settling this heart. You are holding this hand, the sea may has well be rippling at my ankles.
Another deer passes the horizon, and I feel you may discover the reason for this smile.

Fire, Ashes and Name Tags.

No passion,
The poor steal from themselves.
''The people are making a stand'' says the boy without a reason.
And another child lights the bin.

If I am honest,
I've seen more passion in those I disagree with,
This country burning at all corners,
But the outer fires entirely manageable.

'Why are you rioting tonight sir?'
''The police don't like the black,
the police don't like the white,
the police don't like themselves!''

Dressed as you are, in the clothes of 'the poor',
You attend school the next day,
And you apply yourself to your desk,
Safe in the knowledge that you stole a name brand computer,
And torched the home of the poorly dressed too.

Poor man see, Poor man do,
You can barely call it a revolt.
The job centre laughs and polishes it's outer windows,
And tesco' employees straighten their name tags.

The croft woman does open her curtains,
''You see kids, you slept soundly last night...
And the road is a pathetic mess.
The ashes can be swept in an hour.''

My passions lessen as the days grow cool,
And you ask me frequently,
''What's happened to your boots?''

~

''If any of that pointless aggro comes to Bristol... please leave the fucking Gorillas alone.''
-Anon friend's online plea.

Collective Monstrosity.

Oh collectively!
Each sin, oh what we are,
Together beneath each sheet
This wretched, nasty being,
This monster between us,
I will be any thing with you.

How you push unto me,
And the blasted creature tickles a claw against my stomach, it lurches into my breast and it breaths so terribly heavy.
It won't let me to you!

How I want to give in,
Oh banish this as a sin!

Whilst this sinful thing within,
For I am truly, I am,
Wanting,
and in my young skin I should be able!
Blasted creature!
Leave me to my one,
For he, and he is mine and only: he;
He gives in.

Is able.
Such pathetic pen this is that scrawls.
It yearns to better its words, to practise it's give,
And like me to he,
It gives only what the creature between does filter.

It's scream will be audible to me only, the night it is torn from my skin,
wrenched from it's ever-home!
"Die Monster Die!"
Crawl, will it, up the spine to the base of the skull,
Will it linger at my neck, breathe into my ear,
Such is the snarl,
You nuture the other.

Can I possibly ink this thing whilst I am with he?
Can these tangle of words distract it long enough so that I might just be?!
Please, just a moment without one of these creatures to lure it's foul head!
Banish it from my bed!

There are always monsters behind the curtains.

~

Let us cherish our sin,
Even, has the creature forbade me from use of it's words.
But still it does whisper.
You are italics on parchment, my love,
You are the rose blooming over the once dull, routine wall that I pass on my journey.
You knelt in black, did my heart ever wilt.
Those eyes so sadly framed.
Let the monster rest for this caress.