i should have read the contract,

i should have read the lot.

otherwise we wouldn't be standing here,

him screaming his head off.

there's fear all around,

too late to hear me scream out.

the bullet's been fired,

oh why do i feel so tired?

on this rooftop high.



the day after,

i reached around beside me,

but of course she wasn't there.

she'd flown up and away,

just the day before.

she'll dodge and duck and dive,

around all the passing clouds.

now she's finally made it.

she has finally made it,

to the promised land.



the day i died,

they all gathered around,

those who were happy to see my eyes closed forever,

they made me frown.

i did not believe that i had made that great of an enemy in my lifetime.

so as i lay there,

dressed in my very best,

and only saw two cry,

i finally,


closed my eyes,

and carried myself to the next life.



i find peace in the rain.

i like to watch it fall.

i like to see it dance,

as if running down a wall.

i find peace in the rain.

it fills me with a mysterious sense of hope,

and nags me not to mope.

i find peace in the rain.

i find myself alone,

as if blown into that zone.

i find peace in the rain.



the voice of the wind shall call,

from all four corners of the spinning earth.

it will tell you about the wonders,

drawing you to countries, lakes and mountains.

then the wind whispers in your ear:

"come, take my hand."

and you should listen.



oh why do i try?

my sad brain whispers in my ear.

you just get knocked down,

that's all he's saying now.

over and over.

and i can't get him out of my head.



dreams are funny things,

he saw her,

over and over.

each and every night he saw her,

that long, long golden hair,

and those deep blue eyes that were the colour of the sea after a storm.

they swirled around him and sucked him in,

each and every night.

but the thing was...

he had no memory of ever meeting her.



it stops,

and it starts,

and it goes round and round.

it won't change for anyone,

so why do you think it will wait for you?



i want to be young and free forever.

i want to be young and pretty,

careless as the waves breaking on shore.

i want to have no worries,

no money; no house; no car.

no worries.

i want to be young and free forever,

but i fear that a storm is coming,

and it hits me:

nothing lasts forever.

maybe it will be the best part of my life,

but i fear i have wasted these golden years-

in pursuit of books i will never read again.

i want to rebel.

i want to go back.

i want to start again.



i am an inherently creative person,

i would like to be

the david hurn or ansel adams of my generation.

but this opportunity is hard to come by,

like gold in a sandy river.

i do not want to waste my life,

or those little bursts of poetry inspiration.

but perhaps it is vain of me,

sitting, staring out to green pastures

and corn fed sheep,

to think:

that i will ever be someone.



i want to write positively,

i am a newly positive person.

but perhaps it is my true nature,

to be tortured.

my destiny,

to write this way.

or maybe it just sounds better.



alone, completely home alone.

the sultry tones of pink guitars

ring slowly through my lonely ears.

the words tumble effortlessly from my mouth;

muscle memory.

it flows through me like water down the smoothest cliff face -

pooling crystal blue in my soul

and in this rare hour,

this moment in the sun -

no mind to the chaos outside.

my heart is elated.



as i sit pondering, spinning slowly in my blanket-covered chair,

i wonder how there could be:

such anger, hate, negativity.

and when i think what the world has done for me,

i say:

'nothing, except for having given me strength.'



my regret of putting

my lips to yours,

is more

than your regret about leaving me.



sometimes, i want to run away.

to live somebody else's life;

molded by the screen and projected on the eyes of all.

to feel the sun on my face in the morning,

and the cool breeze past my ears at night.

i want true freedom, true wreckless abandon.

true wreckless abandon of all i have known so far.

then other times i realise:

i'm not brave enough for it.



my brain works in mysterious ways:

periods of obssession and recession,

thinking only of that one thing.

that one thing that can satisfy my need;

the need of the utilisation of my imagination.

working faster than a motor in a car,

running faster, the thoughts cutting deeper than a scar.

one month, two months, three months, maybe even four -

drinking in the useless yet important,

the pointless, yet sacred information -

only to be rarely ever thought of again.

i'm moving on to the next period of obssession and recession.