You play a better game than me
It's fair to say, it's plain to see
In terms of distraction
You're better at pretending
That I'm not always there
A silent flare

Radio silence
We don't acknowledge
But I don't need you to
I know I'm a patient pin
Sitting just under your skin

I'm waiting for you to break
To bend, to blow
The process is slow
But the finale will be
The greatest show

How long will you last?
How long before you cave?
Resistance is futile
Give me your attention
It's all that I crave.

where,honey &lemon
  is replacing the
flowersome air,where
the sea is not half
   as sugary as

this toothache way
   I find Myself in.

see,I want the some
-things,
        I want all the
  little somethings
but nothing & nothing
& nothing is what
   I,ve found.

is relief grown
in riverbeds,where   is
  content & her litter
of reminders that,'every
thing    will be   okay?

one of My
       little somethings
,to Me,which shows I am
okay, on board&sailing
           for utopia.

People share
Stuff with me,
From the mundane
To the horrific;
When we sit together
It all comes out
In drips….
Free flow, and like
***** —


     I hold it
As if it were
A porcelain vase;
Fragile yet robust
And I triage,


The greater needs
At large:
Safety,
Reconnection
And calm.
So their sense of self
Is held.

The world is a good place —
But there are some f#*cked up
People in it.

I can't stop the damage;
But I can hold the fragments
And pay homage
To the extraordinary
Lives of courage.

Knows it has to be filled,
An empty brain is unaware of it.
26/6/2025

Forgetful dreams, trapped on the pillow of my
bed— tiptoeing thoughts, almost like a ballerina
having a good stretch. As an injured picture frame
hauls away the canvas of a dream on a stretcher.
Giving pretence for a pretender—and knowing
whether the weather decides to jump over your
head, is knowing when it has a spring in its step.

But it never bends to tender hearts—it only offers
them the work of love. A group of tenders; all their
touches tender, all enlisted in affection’s labor force.
And if it's a compulsory love, we'll love with force.

Cos Love is a chin check sport—and you pay
for it with the protruding part of a chin cheque.
Control, and out-of-control—to the ones living
so remote. But lose that island, and you lose control.
And lose the answer to the power of influence—
and you begin to question what control even means.
Control is part of that… this far, at least, but a life
without risk— is the risk of never having lived.
Because everything you love to do might just be
the very last thing that finally does you in.

Crescent Moon
First Quarter Moon
Half Moon
Full Moon
Last Quarter Moon
Waning Crescent Moon

All of these appearances
are winks
of the moon.

Drawn upon the shore
Stillness stirs before the waves
In sound, spirit soars