I might be something, dreaming.

Suppose I write a new, for the old?
My dreams have been so tell-tale lately!
And so unco-operative as I attempt pen them down!
Blasted, unrelated, unrealistic sub-reality of one's own mind!
But so realistic! It is the problem, they are so!
For I feel in them,
Feel as you might breathing in the rain on a routine stroll to work,
Feel as you might on that first dive into the cool of an outdoor pool!
The people in them, I have seen, mostly, I have!
I have grown with them, I mightn't have all of them any more,
But they have been here, in this supposed waking world.
And growl, have I, at waking on occasion,
To find they are still not here.

It is proof of my time-walking?
It is certainly proof of my dreaming!
And it is all of the dreaming, it is all of the mumbling in my sleep,
And the constant logging of dreams!

Suddenly, I awake and am onto something,
Suddenly writing is as writing can be,
And I've a beginning to that story I never finished,
And mightn't finish if I should have trouble sleeping again.
On all these notes and the above and below, I return to my dwelling, I return to the screen and pen my endless papers! It might just happen, I confirm, it might!
I may have stumbled onto what a life I am supposed have,
Or at least the same road.
Well, same city at most,
But the same nonetheless! On the map it all is!
I can be something,
Can't I?
As awkward as I am in daily situations,
As dull as my voice sounds,
As vague as I ever am,
As unshapely as I may be:
I might be something.

I might be.

It must be grey.

I should think you mighty,
To come and to challenge me,
So don't,
And simply be beside me.
Have you ever a question for me?

I am aware of tear stained cheeks,
We have both witnessed,
Such colour,
In dusks simple transaction.
Like winter lasting longer.

I have made you up a room,
The walls all rather pale,
To rest,
You must lay your head somewhere near mine.
The birds here sing all night.

Waking is a scent in itself,
And realisation is the sweestest follow,
Remember me,
The crow will caw before the dawn.
And I have been awake most of the night.

Should I fall prey to sleep,
Below the hollow tree in the garden,
Gentle quiet,
And day time's birds.
I expect your challenge withdrawn upon waking.

Toned.

Grant me, if you will,
The ability to forget, and then to re-live.
And the possible indication of where i went wrong the first time.
Of course, i am not asking you to go back.
What a waste and regain of time that would be.
All I'm saying is, my night was sweeter knowing that the next day,
I was to visit the seaside I'd never before seen.
Now i have.

~

Sometimes passion holds me.
Occasionally gripping at my arms and cupping the flesh,
All the while maintaining it's trade.
Brushes in my hands - pens, technology and hefty plastic expenses.
-
Passion is;
My carriage now sits empty, par the man two windows thick, through,
And so my voices carries out from travelled throat,
and trails softly around the bars, eightie's designed seating and mortgage adverts.
It's barely even a whisper. And it's slightly out of tune.
But all the while this circle line train plummets deeper,
It's route set and myself stuck.
It shakes my being comfortably, uncontrollably
And I watch the curve in machinery.
It's destination set, I wait upon an exit.
But that part before doors slide,
Possibly is felt when passion drives.

Narrow, aimless, blind but sure of an arrival.




~
Daylight showed me Essex was at my feet,
My suitcase merely grumbled along behind me in an adolescent way.
The train doors scraped some sort of farewell, and in my mind only did the train whistle aprovingly as it steamed away.
For a moment my hair was permed and a netted hat sat slanted upon it.
But sepia failed to make it's appearance today,
and so a chav bustled by me hump-ily, clashing music riding within his palm.
'I'm not a fan of lazy days'
She once said.
And half an hour later boarded a train so similar.
His voice played out a blur as she sat alone on the platform.
There was no breeze disguising traffic,
But the hum sat in the air around her had his tone to it.
It wound itself into her throat,
and caused her the deepest breath she'd taken that day.

Her eyes turned inwards,
but there was no deffinate way of seeing his face.
The sun then peered out from behind the wispy clouds,
it's warmth rolled over her as did her eyes roll outward.
They ached in protest to the newly found brightness,
and squinted accordingly.
A familiar tingle hit her throat,
And the sounds of live piano muscled it's way into the back of her mind somewhere.
She enjoyed it for no longer than 30 seconds,
And then, her throat and eyes dry, she left.