Parents

Kind hearts

And nicer souls

Always tolerant

Never a tyrant

Gentle guidance

Comforting hugs

Boundless love

Constant worrying

Undaunted support

Always giving

Never asking for anything in return

They smile every time I smile

They cry before tears can even leave my eye

They live to see me make a life for myself

I am, because you are

And what you are is rather rare

Wishlist

All I want

Is a room with a view

A heart with a tune

A dream with a date

A song for my fate

A prayer on my lips

A swing to my hips

Some wind beneath my wings

Hands which can seize

Manners aimed to please

Eyes which can see no lies

And most of all

I want to be

Surrounded by

More books than I can count

And more love than I can contain

Please feel free to add below.

An affair of the night

Some times I’d like to take a boat out into the night

Under a star lit sky

I’d take a moment

To take in the moon

A little faded

A little diffused

I feel it’d look like hastily rubbed out chalk on a slate

I’d raise a toast to it

With a contented sigh

As the sea gladly lulls me to sleep on a bed of gentle waves

But instead

I’m lying in bed tonight

Starting at a rickety ceiling fan

In danger of falling off

Almost in competition with the surrounding plaster which keeps peeling off

I have a lumpy mattress and a rock hard pillow

And my own tears in which to wallow

The moon seems too faraway a dream

With not even a skylight in sight

Yet when I close my eyes

I can almost see it shimmer

Beckoning me closer

Snippets of my soul

Every time you come to me

With no intention of staying

You tear away a part of me

Which can never grow back

Every time you talk to me

With no truth in your voice

You cut at me with razor blades

And I ooze out your lies

Every time you look at me

With less than loving eyes

You down the shutters and drown out the light

From every corner of my heart

Every time you leave me again

With promises of an ever after

You suck the joy from all my days

And all the brightness inside of me

So, here

Take this

I’ve compiled a scrapbook for you

And on every page

You’ll find in red

Snippets of my soul

A dream for a nightmare?

Midnight

Comes with a tagline

Dreams be available here

And so do nightmares

Till 3:03 am

Sometimes a barter works in this bazar

Sell your dreams

For some scary, sleepless nights

And sometimes there’s a miracle

Where you’re handed a bucketful of dreams

So believe me and don’t

Open your eyes tonight

Come again tomorrow

To get your money’s worth

Why A Poet #12

If you have to sit down and make yourself write, then alas, you are betraying the craft itself

For you see poetry isn’t made, created or done

It fills you up with frenzy

Until it oozes out in words

It catches you unawares

When you least expect it

And then promptly proceeds to overwhelm and overtake you

It consumes all your thoughts

With a feverish delight

It captures every breath you take

Like you were its birthright

It’s an agonising mistress

Yet a rewarding lover

It’s an amazing way to destress

Or to start all over

So no, I don’t believe you can make poetry

Rather

You become it

All of me

I expect you to love the parts of me I never liked

To care for those dreams of mine

Which I neglected

To nurture my thoughts

Which I hid behind a curtain of shame

To invade my personal space

In order to become my entire comfort zone

Don’t you see

I expect you to love me

More than I could hope to be

And then, maybe,

With a happy sigh

We could call it destiny