I was travelling along a busy road-
Eyes opened and closed.
I had music in my ears so loud that
I could hear the sound of
Ringing with every note.
Way out of the window,
I raced the ****** train to Scotland
Up a dual carriageway and felt rapid
Time dispel all notions of
Going nowhere in life.

Without warning my world was jolted and
Came to a stand still.
We were in motion but
I was trapped and uncomfortable as
I remembered that yesterday,
In your thoughtful, rash way,
You texted me from a tent in Leeds
Telling me that
It was over.

Grass looked so much greener on the other side
Of the glass, yet I was
Unable to let go of the past.
I thought to myself  
'This is not how I planned my life would turn out'
At least, not today.
It hit me that I can
Never plan to be happy because
On the days I plan to be happy I will
Think of this moment and
Be sad.

Earth seems out of tune as
I lose the race through thoughts of you and
Begin to
Hate my favourite songs;
I love you.

I should have known better.
I can't decide whether to
Live my life and jump onto the train ahead or to
Jump in front of it.
I'm sorry I wasn't enough and
I could never be
No matter how hard
I tried.

I'm in a traffic jam now.
I watch the sun become eclipsed by the clouds and
I wish you were
Here.

A mug of camomile tea is best accompanied
By the gloam of a late summer's day and
The distant bleats of young sheep,
I find. Peace lies between
Two silhouetted trees, black
Against a blueish sky.

I have never before been to Italy
But I go there in my mind;
Calling all the local men by your name
And observing no rapid tide.

I drink tea that gets not cold
But ever warmed by the arancia sun-
That soothes my paleness,
And makes me one.

And if I should ever die in this cornucopia of colour,
It would not be as I had hoped;
For Italy was a country to find together,
Not where I, alone, should *****.

Why do my eyes waver in salt water?
It's just a concept I don't really understand when
The ocean in my mind is dry but
My eyes? So wet.
And yet, fire roars through an ***** named Passion - and the sand beneath my feet burns their soles and tries to
Penetrate my soul
But I have buckets,
Tucked under two lids,
That can spill with or without my will.
They can put out a flame, both good and bad. A blessing and a curse.
I'm told that fish can't climb trees but I have neither arms nor gills you see
I have been immobilised,
And it's down to a monochrome smear on a canvas with so much potential;
A plethora of 'dos' and 'don'ts';
The slaughter of a lamb.
I would like to stand in solidarity with each martyr of idiosyncrasy.
I wonder if anything we ever do will be enough.

I have a perfume called Vida.
It smells like bergamot and limes
And it makes me feel alive.
It is regal in a bottle and whenever I wear it, I am complemented for
How sweet I smell.

This perfume doesn't bring me life, however,
(My mother brought me life and my soulmate keeps it going)
It simply reminds me that Vida is in fact within my veins-
It reminds me that I am alive even though there are days where it feels like
I am dead.

Outside of the library,
On a wet, wet day,
You smiled and said
'I love you'
Before walking away
Towards the platform, where you depart,
And I know that I will always feel this way
About you.

You run your fingers through my hair and with them bring
The cool, fresh air that
I have longed for, all throughout the
Winter.

The green flecks and
The blue hues of your eyes
Connect you to this current season:
Springtime.
Through your warmth and light,
You have given me
New life.

I have been told that said eyes are the window to the soul, so
When we kiss we must never keep our eyes closed;
An exchange of hearts for an exchange of souls that will continue, and
Never grow old.

Daisy.
A little flower with white petals that sometimes turn pink.
An orange centre that withstands the constant extraction of those petals, with the pang and echo of tiny voices shouting
“He loves me; he loves me not”-
Often mistaken for a ****.

Daisy.
A girl who winces with insecurity
Every time the nearest dandelion clock is
Plucked from the soiled earth around her.
She watches with wet, reddened eyes as she is paralysed
(If being limbless can equate to such a feeling)
And unable to stop the careless children blow away Time as if it were some sort of lark-
Seed by seed.

Daisy.
A witness to the exposure of stalks and leaves alike;
A veteran of the unwanted embrace and, indeed,
The wanton thieving of petals and memories and silence and voice
Combined.
She is swaying but explicitly not
Bending to the wind.
She stands her ground, and
She has blossomed.