If midnight would come,

I might have a friend.

January might come,
December without snow.

If the rains come
I should try,

If sunny days come
I should smile.

maybe I was falling apart,

because i wanted to

Maybe, maybe’s,

are what we do.

Ends of your hairs stuck to your cheek,
we sat back and watched,
I analysed your details,
your scars.

You enjoy pain,

I deposit your suffering.

The pleasure is not taste,
innoccent eyes never shift their gaze.
I sat back a few minutes,
little hairs stuck to your face.
 

Buildings go up like lego,

im inrigued by the exo skeletons.

The world is changing,

evolving.

Are we in fast forward,

or rewind?

Call it as you see it,

ideologies come tumbling.

Crimes against humanity,

Sadly.

threats of nuclear doom.

In this age of retro cool.

At night,

we’ll sleep on sheets of fair trade,

hippies will get stoned at live aid,

and things will get said at the G8.

‘demons’

‘nightmares’

That voice,

that lifeless voice.

drama,

symbols,

props,

mime

the viewers?

No empathy.

Voice continues,

bang!

tears,

gasp!

Voice pauses,

the violin shrieks

the cello strangles

and the orchestra fails.

If you find your way home,

A fortnight to this,
you danced with a chicken head,

savouring,
the dark art.

Forgone,

distant,

accompanied by scoffers,
marauding the seedy columns.

How would they know?

when no one cared to ask,

that you were nothing,

but a mordern day prodigal tale.

Tarred road dirt,
By men with arduous contribution.

Resilience,
perspiring grit.

The caution glow,
Underneath the suns beam.

To that man that worked on possibility,
Through shifts in black collars.

I’m currently in the process of spring cleaning.

Dusting, washing, hoovering.

As a result, I’m putting forward old material, dusty and crumpled from nooks and corners of old writing pads in a bid to de-junk. Also to create space for renewed inspiration.

You will notice varying styles sometimes the plight of a writer trying to find his voice.