the words.

sometimes, my mind is an empty box, lying on a street corner.
                  a blank page, cold to touch.
                  silent, standing in the middle of a deserted road
                  in the middle of a clear night.

sometimes, the words are screaming inside my head.
                  smashing mirrors, slamming doors.
                  images, emotions flickering on
                  peripheral projector screens.
                  the words cannot escape, as internally
                  i burst into flames.

sometimes, a tiny beginning, a little phrase
                  will trickle down my arm.
                  a spring at the peak of a mountain.
                  the words will make my fingers move
                  my arm to dance, whilst flowing ink
                  prods the dam to break.

sometimes, each letter will fall in a single tear, a drop of blood.
                  a soundless embrace, a subtle nod,
                  a secret kiss. the words leave the talking
                  to the heart instead.

sometimes, the words aren't enough.

but occassionally, the words are just enough
                            to make you laugh.
                            help you love.
                            and let you live.

                            if you're lucky.

bitch slap.

go on,
throw it in my face
you know, you just relish
that you seduce so well
that she desires you more
the lust that connects you
chokes, strangles
the bitter taste in my mouth
metallic, congealed blood
as your secret looks
and each lingering touch
fused with tension and voracity
they bruise, break and burn

that barrier you both adore
guess who it is
pushed and provoked
stuck, once again
the energy between you
it courses through me
i feel it all
as it rips me apart

you forget
these words aren't yours
they trailed from my desperate lips
as i craved her love
not so many moons ago
just as one does now
be careful, friend
as you embrace this game
of placing your infatuations
above others
by all means, you deserve it
but you will always trample
another's yearning heart

remember
after each resounding bitch slap
across my weakened face
love will never be enough.

trich of the mind.

streaming through the window
strips running down her body
as she lies on the floor
and spies the littered strands
everywhere.

it has a name. her condition.
she is conformed to the medical excuse
that is supposed to explain
why her parents made her wear gloves in bed.

knowing 'i'm not the only one'.
it might help you, but not her.
the one who's school photo was mocked
because her attempts at
concealing her broken self-esteem
failed.
now, it is more than just

a means of calming herself down
releasing pressure, expressing excitement.
it is a disease.
she is trapped in a diagnostic nightmare.
slamming her fist against white
clinical walls, labelled. a 'trichster'.
a maniac.

she rips and tears, pain is irrelevant
forget the blades and edges sharp
she can destroy herself just fine
without them.

hand blindly stumbles
she stares, unaware
that she keeps tugging
at the roots of her mind

she can't stop
it is a need
she is in control this way
pull, and she is serene
call it what you will
as she mutilates her appearance
it is not a crime
just an anaesthetic
or, the way i see it
a trich of the troubled mind.

do i know you?

hello, nice to meet you.
another lonely fly.

don't i know you from somewhere?
i think you used to be a friend.

ooh, it likes you.
its eight legs are flailing.
or so you think.

i'll just keep swinging in my hangman's noose.
watching as another meal is entranced from the air.

by its lustful stare, and potent charm.
the web drips with it.

jealousy, just doesn't cut it anymore.

to be young.

to lie between a sky and field,
and twist single blade between fingertips,
leaving smudged green tint on paper skin,
listening to a sound that is music to you.

to watch the words of tale and poem,
roll across your eyes and over your lips,
sink into your mind as they leap off the page
or flow from hand as you flourish the nib.

to trace gentle notes, on strings or keys,
senses absorbed by simple tunes,
acquired from melancholy inspirations
or the odd whimsical tryst ... or two.

to wander through trees and shafts of light
landscape forgotten, hunting with keen eye
in search of mismatched intricacies
to a capture a moment, yours to keep.

to strut down empty commercial scenes
watch spinning wheels through crowded estate
bursting and beaming with bold selfhood
inquisitive faces happily askew.

to be sprawled on familiar threadbare sheets
bask in the centre of your amber dreams
youth balancing on a lopsided smile
as culture embraces, the world at your feet.