Every December

In one night, I became undone
two years ago. Falling apart
in another's hands
It wasn't my choice -
I didn't choose this.
In fact, I had no say
and yet I'm the one who remembers
and unravells, crying
because I live with it now.

This was two years ago
and it comes back every December
before Christmas,
and I feel plagued
and diseased,
almost ragged like the old doll
thrown to the side.

Friday, November 28, 2008

The end has finally come and I'm now going through all the crap which I've brought to school this term. Basically, it's a huge mess. Any more packing and I'd die. Now really, I've wanted to get so many things done this term before I leave but so far I've been unsuccessful on a couple things. There has been this one thing which I've been trying to do over the past term but haven't really been able to. I was almost successful on a couple occasions but failed in the the end. Looks like I won't be able to get it done after all.

It's quite sad really. Disappointing to a certain extent. I still have half a day tomorrow but I highly doubt anything will happen.

*listens to roommate cough*

Bloody dust bunnies.

No Knocks on the Door

The windows don't let much sunlight in this time of year.

I lean against the radiator to keep myself warm. There is very little in this room that keeps me warm now that winter is pushing its way through. There's a mug of hot coffee on the side table but it's quickly becoming cold. The thought of drinking lukewarm coffee isn't very appealing.

The four walls feel like they're cracking and the ceiling about to come down over my head. I've got the sniffles, you see - the world always feels like it's going to end when you're ill. I sit against the radiator feeling sorry for myself.

My throat feels hoarse - I've lost my voice. I can't speak and haven't spoken to anyone in awhile. I'm not inundated with text messages or emails from people wondering where I've gone to. No one knows I'm ill and house-bound so it's a wonder why they aren't wondering about me.

I look at the door, wishing I would hear a knock from someone who's worried about me. But there's nothing. And as the sunsets and the winter cold bites even more, I've given up hope that there will be a knock on the door. My head is now pounding and I don't think I can sit up any more. I lie down and close my eyes. I can hear a dog barking outside the house and a car zooming by but that's about it.

There's still no knock on the door and no one to care for me.

Please don't forget me

Please don't forget me.
I know you left me at the bend
and told me you weren't coming back
but at the very least
please don't forget me.

I remember -
I remember the first spent over coffee
and the awkward hugs
and the nervous twiddling of thumbs.
I remember a lot and I hope
you remember some.

Please don't forget me
I know you left me at the bend
and I know you're not coming back
but at the very least
for the sake of the past
please don't forget me.

Notes

If this were to be my last note -
last words,
I would cite loneliness as the reason
for my departure.
And when the life ebbs away
from the veins in my hands
I will remember the last moments
I spent without you
lying in bed, writing more notes and letters
only to have them not received
by your hands which once cared for me.
And when I go,
remember the notes I wrote
and where they lie now,
under your bed
and think about the past which is now
long gone
and think of how you played a part in my going
and how this was the only 'meant to be'.

A Script from My Timeline: Oblivious (Vignette #7)

Apparently, I lost something yesterday.

It must have fallen out of my pocket as I was rushing to catch my train. I was running late and in my haste to get on the train, it must have fallen out and landed somewhere on the snowy pavement.

I wasn't aware I had lost anything. My day continued as it normally does - busy at work with phone calls and demanding clients. As I returned and walked the same snowy pavement back to the house, I didn't notice it lying on the ground.

It's been a week since I apparently lost it and I don't think it'll be where I dropped it anymore. It may have been washed away when the snow melted or it may have been picked up by someone else. If it was the latter, I doubt this someone else would ever understand how much it once meant to me. Only I will remember how much I cherished it and kept it so carefully once upon a time. But, now I've lost it and I don't think I'll ever get it back.

Sometimes it's hard to notice what's been lost. I had kept it in my pocket for so long I had forgotten it was there to begin with. Perhaps had I kept it in my shirt pocket, closer to my heart, I would still have it. But instead I abandoned it in the right pocket of my winter coat and hastily got on with my life. 

I should feel sad but to be honest, I'm not sure if I am fully aware that I've lost something. I wonder how long it will take me to notice. Perhaps, one day, on one of my train journeys, I'll absent-mindedly rummage through the right pocket of my coat, and realise it's no longer there.

And when that does happen, the rest of my journey to work will seem very lonely and I'll be filled with regret.

Over

It's over.

It had always been that way.

Over

like the end of a time that shouldn't have been.

It's over.

Over

like how the lives we lead will one day be.

Over

as if none of it ever happened, and we disappear from each other.

Write.

Write a song for me and show me what I sound like.
Write the symphony you always hear when I'm here.
Write one sentence - just one - about what you wish you could say to me.

Write a poem to tell the stories we've created together.
Write a vignette that talks about our conversations.
Write one sentence - just one - about what you wish would happen to us.

Write a hopeful future that you wish we both will have.
Write the future you want us to have.
And then, write one sentence - just one - about how we'll get there.

Hi Readers.

Say "hi"

A Script from My Timeline: I don't think we can be friends

I think of how things have changed...all the time...

I remember how I burnt my toast every morning in the cheap toaster only students deserved - it stood for all we were worth; it stood for all we could seemingly ever have. And as times changed and I moved out and afforded more expensive kitchen appliances, I still find myself burning things. I'm beginning to question how much I've progressed in my life.

I think of how not-so-far-away it all seems...almost all the time...

We're meeting winter again in a few weeks. Every winter seems like an overlay of the last - nothing from the previous winters were ever forgotten. Their events (or non-events) were just enunciated in the annual sub-zero temperatures and they all seem more real than ever come the coldest time of the year. Not even a well-toasted slice of bread would keep me warm (though a cup of strong coffee might)

I think of how I've forgotten and drifted away...not nearly enough times...

I've burnt quite a lot of toast in the past - they are a pretty good reminder of how some things just do not go the way they should. With some things, I will try and try and again to make it work, to perfect the art of not burning my breakfast. But for others, maybe it isn't worth travelling the distance for a good breakfast and they'll lie forgotten.

I have a hot mug coffee in hand and a somewhat-okay piece of toast. They'll keep me company for now and I think we'll be friends for a bit.

As for the rest of you, I don't think we can be friends. In fact, I don't think we can ever be friends again.

I don't want to see you

I don't want to see you anymore.
Disappear around the corner
so that you seem farther away
and when I return
please make sure you're gone.

I can't see your face even if I wished;
it seems to have smeared
at the back of my mind, like mud
just washed up by rain
and you are no more.

I don't want to see you anymore.
Disappear around the corner
so that you seem farther away
and when I return
you'll be gone.

Fireworks for November

Fireworks be lit on November nights
and as I watch them disappear,
disperse in the cold, I feel saddened,
knowing nothing lasts forever.

Writing Stories

Come and write stories for me.
Tell me what will happen,
tell me what will become
tell me what we will be.

Follow skies for the future
and watch as life rolls under
but take care you hold on tight
or I might just let you go.

Please write stories with me
I want to you to be here
and be the character of my heart
which will live on forever.

Topple

Ceasing

It's knowing we could cease overnight
and by morning, be no more
than pasts and forgotten figments
pencilled away in hidden diaries
to be burnt in winter's flame.

To watch its ashes rise and litter the air
would remind me of how engulfed
in grief and sadness I would be
and how the words I carefully articulated
would float aimlessly away from me.

Flames can't take it away from me -
they stay like bloodstains on fresh sheets
and hover at the back of my mind
like ghosts ready to haunt
and forgetting is no option which
can be attained...not with the depths
we've created, not with
the hearts we've formed and now
have to break

________________________________________

How do we find broken glass in pockets
ready to graze and cut
when we rummage through all we have left?
How do we find a way out
when all we have are
memories which lie hidden and hurting?

The Lies I Create

Let's talk about all the lies I've created;
there are lies on my face
lies in my words
and lies in the hands that shake yours.

They lie at the fingertips
that pen and type
words which hide everything
and express nothing.
They lie in the mouth
which conjure stories
to disguise yesterday's tears
which you caused.

The lies I form are stories
which come from me and you.
They shrivel and mingle
with language and thoughts
to bring to you an account
more obscure and hidden
than the very truth itself.

And in sadness,

we are.

Still Here

I hope you're still here.
Sometimes it feels like you've gone
and I'd be left in tears
wondering if you'll be back
to pick me up when I'm alone.

No Time Left

I'm afraid I can't see you.
Behind the bend where I left
you stand, unaccounted for
by passer-bys and drivers
who overlook and ignore you.

After months of talk and months of joy,
I lose sight of you
behind that small bend by Twining Avenue.
Time flies away and work rears ugly heads to reveal
that we never cared at all.

So goodbye is said
in an obscure place
at the back of my mind,
and I shatter into pieces like broken glass
littered uncaringly
on a cold Autumn's night.

Once Left

It is more the days that were happy
that get to me now. They remind me
of warmth and love that bloomed in spring
only to end as autumn comes to close.
It is when the days are no longer right
and the nights no longer habitable
that I wish that light could come again
and whisk me away to a better place.
Where have you gone when everything fell?
Were you not to be here and hold me tight?
Were you just here, then, to get
all you needed and then leave
me on cold, hard platforms to be bitten
by wind and frost and heartless intent?
I assume so, considering I'm alone,
alone in a room with no windows or holes
to let sunlight in. I wonder where you are
even though you've left; I wonder if you know
that you've left me in sadness.

I Am to You

I think you know me now;
I was the one you met at the pub.
Spring was just coming round
and I turned up, unannounced
and unbeknownst to you
I would become more important
than just a person you ran into.

I think you know me now.
I was the one whose number you got
and the person you tried to know.
I think you know me now.
I was the one who became everything
and eventually became nothing.

I think you knew me then;
I was the person you tried to love
and then the person you tried to leave.
And when we parted ways
down paths which will never meet
I became a memory you want to forget.

Cheats

I saw so many things that day
how memories can slip into the dark
and your hand away from me.
I can still see how there was nowhere to go
except into the woods
where no one went.
I knew you were there to lie to me
and then I would decide
I want nothing to do with you any more.

Blind Behind Doors

Doors closed like coffins

in the dark

in the dark.

Walk through piles of stones

and broken glass

bare foot

in the dark

in the dark.

Cuts on your feet

Sand in your hands;

shredded diaries

scattered words

fall on the ground

before your eyes...

what eyes?
What eyes?

In the dark

can't see, 

don't know where we're going

in the dark

away from this 

on my own 

opening doors

closed like coffins.

Where is my future?

Drunk in unknown

High on anticipation;

you don't know.

We're blind behind doors

like children 

seen not heard,

we see no more

then the nameless doors

which mock our lives

hiding the future.

Where do we go?

Where do we fucking go?

Through the door,

through the door

and we'll be blind like bats

knowing no more

than what we do now.

A Lot of Child

There was a lot of child in him
from gait to talk
to being in his shell;

there was nothing obscure
or hidden in being
and no history to hide;

but again, I feel lonely
and wandering minds, make me
think that maybe, he was left behind.

For the Children

Do you pray
and pay
for more indecisive truths
that are put away in the night
for little boys to find?

Is there hope
or loss
in the heart we own
for the children who come
with no hands to hold?

Wrongs of the Past

People talk behind walls
down alleys and paths
to ponder about pasts
deviant from rights and wrongs.

In the dark they come
away from obscurity
to rub off immaturity
and find themselves undone.

On train tracks, they escape
the life of the present;
On the way, they repent
And find themselves unforgiven.

Moving Away

Forgetting is the ebbing away of memory. It disintegrates into particles, too small to grasp and they disperse into the atmosphere.


On a train, departing, I don't see you again.


The departure was just that - the departure of you from my life (ironically as it was me who was leaving on the train). I did catch sight of you just before the train turned round the bend but I looked away just before you disappeared.

Speeding through towns and fields and more towns, I spared you one too many thoughts and I wished you had disappeared long before. But I knew I'd eventually forget you as I continued my journey further and further away from you. Before I would know it, I would have travelled further away from you than I ever had - and I can't complain.

It's Raining Out Here

Maybe she'll let me in

Tempered With

I was drawn to the documentary on rape on the telly the other day. It talked about how a girl was lead, naively, into thinking her boyfriend had her best interest in mind before raping her senseless.

I have some empathy...maybe. The documentary droned on about how the girl now lives in a whirlwind of self-hatred, shame and anger and how suicide started mixing in with this unhealthy concoction. There was no mention of the boy, not surprisingly, because he was in jail.

I switched the television off upon realising it was 3am and that I have work the next day. The flat was quiet (I live on my own) - the only sounds were the drip drop of the broken tap I have yet to fix. Apart from that, the silence reminded me that I am alone. I retired to bed shortly after, and set my alarm clock for 6am (it's now 3.15am). One hour later, I was still lying there, eyes wide open. I was thinking about the girl on the telly and how she got herself into that situation, but I was also wondering what was the situation.

I became uncomfortable with that thought and began writhing under the duvet as if in pain; well, I was in pain - emotional pain. I began to see different scenarios in my head: non-consented sex, molestation - maybe alcohol was involved?

I pulled the duvet over my head and tried to stifle out the images in my head. They kept coming back and I hated it.

The alarm rang and I was still under the duvet, hiding - hiding as if someone was out to get me. I was relieved to hear the alarm go because it signalled that real life was starting again and I could now let go of the horrible recurring images in my head and the imagined unpleasant sensations. I turned the alarm off and pulled myself out from under the covers. The day started again and I was so glad it did as I got out of bed and cleared all the nastiness out of myself.

Not Ready to Wake

Dear Love,
I'm asleep.
I've pulled the duvet over my head,
exposing my feet
and fallen asleep.

With the alarm clock unset
and the curtains drawn
I don't plan on getting up
not for awhile, at least.

Heartaches

My heart aches
because yours does too.
It holds scars and twisted veins
which won't heal or untangle.
It falls apart, decrepit
in my hands
and yet I still want the best
for you, even when you're
no longer there,
to hold my hands.

The Journey of Journeys

Departing on trains
is such a cold affair
where waves of farewell
only go so far
as to signify distance
and time apart.

Disappearing
around the bend
I travel further beyond
and upon losing
sight of you, I sink
into an unfeeling stupor.

And I wake up
just in time to disembark
on a strange platform
and to continue walking
whilst watching the train
disappear, beyond sight.

Learning in Lectures

What is he talking about?

Lecture dismissed;
we're herded out like cattle,
out the doors which we entered
into the snow and cold.
Lecture made no sense
to you, or me, or them -
to us.

What was he talking about?

Lecturer disembarks,
leaving the hall after us.
He walks past us
no acknowledgement
of us, his pupils, people.
He shuffles away to the next lecture
on Social Psychology.

What did we learn?

Over caffeine and cake
we talk, merely talk,
about the lecture.
We review today's jargon
which bears no use in daily life.
We leave half-eaten cakes
and half-empty mugs, unfulfilled.

No Ink

I'm writing letters to you;
this room has never felt so cold;
the pen churns out no ink
or words; I'm trying to write to you.

Words are dormant in my head,
repeating but not being expressed,
they lie idle in my head,
and bear no existence to you.

In the dark, when the light goes off,
I compose conversations in my head;
they never see the light of day,as I don't
say a word, or have ink in my pen.

Your Friends

It was topping up pride
with people, as if to show
you have more. But what are they
to you but breathing trophies
and well-mannered companions,
chieseled by their parents.

Sharing A Bed

It was knowing
that the bed was once ours,
shared between two;
and it's knowing now
that that's no longer the case
that wrings at the neck.

Facing truth upon truth
about love and what wasn't
we part two ways
never to meet,
leaving the bed we shared
to be shared by another.

And perhaps with time
its significance would be null
but for now it's a symbol
of what perfection is
and what really
was not to be attained.

Needs To Be Met

Needs to be met
under a bridge
in the dark
while trains pass overhead.

Needs to be met
by a stranger
who you met
in brief passing.

Needs to be met
right now
right now because
you want it.

Needs have been met
under a bridge
by a stranger
right now.

Feeling Better

Hours in bed
merge into unconsciousness
time slipping away in the heat
feverish with thoughts
which make no sense,
images of colours
which mean nothing.

Windows closed
sealing off the fresh air,
the room cloyingly damp
with ill breath and
unwanted loneliness and
death? Your mind wanders...

In that event, when you
float, you find a new high.
You find you need no more
and you sleep peacefully
even when they knock on you door,
wondering where you are.

In Different Directions

It's always in the parting of ways. Suddenly, the phone line gets cut off and the nights of deep conversations end. All this for the unnerving aim to be separate - to be no longer involved.

It's like saying goodbye at the crossroads where one takes off North and the other East. There is no more chance of meeting. The embrace that was once home to you becomes alien and the laugh you once loved becomes inexplicably cold and hauntingly sad.

There are so many crossroads in this world and thus, there are many farewells to be bid. So when do the crossroads end and when do roads meet and go on an endless journey as one? I always imagine a road travelling in no specific direction - a road in which trajectory does not matter. All that matters is that this road travels all the way up to the end. And when it hits that end, it fades into the sea and is lost in its blue.

"I don't think this is too difficult a dream," I say, but yet, I'm sat alone in this park.

Vignette #6

What keeps me up at night?

You, because I care so much.

The Words We Write

Words are stranded on a page
blank,
leprous white.
We write so much
only to leave them
on crumpled sheets
torn at the corners
nibbled by age and time.

In a day far away
when ink fades
and churns no coherence
we will look back and wish
we remembered more;
on a day like this
we will wish for memory
only to find that it is gone,
only to find there's nothing left.

Best Not

Best not to know
tied up to worries
beyond our control
and people who
don't care about us.

Best not to fuss
over commitments and
love when reciprocation
is null in
the eyes of the other.

Best not to love at all
when life turns
its ugly head and bares
all teeth
at your innocent soul.

Best not to live
when the world is empty
and you're alone
with no one for you
to love and to love you.

I Stand Roadside

I stand roadside
holding paper and rhymes
reading for you and me.
I jeer at drivers,
sneer at children
glare at elders.
Post-it notes
crumpled in my pocket
been through the wash
a dozen times;
ink runs down my fingers
words washed and bleached;
your photo torn
on the floor
pen stabbed through your eyes.
See me now. See me now!
You run away. You run
so fucking far away,
and I stand roadside
holding paper and rhymes
reading for you and me.

Dogs

Dogs - they shit everywhere
and leave their masters to pick up after them.

To be with

I'm in the park. There are people basking in the sun, sat on picnic blankets.

I? I'm sitting on a bench under a willow tree. Carved on the bench is 'George Pope 1910-1988'. I'm alone today with just George to keep me company.

Children totter by with their parents and company in tow, oblivious to me watching them from under the tree - oblivious to how much I wish I could have the company of loved ones that they had.

The sun is out but I'm getting chilly. The people and their miniature counterparts are leaving - and I think it's time I did too.

Lost in love and inevitably, in loneliness.

My Room

My room harbours
possessions and thoughts
and me; dark at night
it swells like nightmares
and thunders like hell.

Vignette #5

Waiting for delayed trains on a sweltering day is never fun - it's a subjected neccessity. A neccessity because I need to get home, regardless (I'm tired and feeling unwell) and subjected because I never asked for this.

As the day progresses beyond the specified time in which the train was meant to come, I become more lethargic and I find myself slumped limply on the station bench. I just want to go home.

In my idleness, my mind wanders off. I think about where I am now (a graduate, unemployed and still living off someone else's income); I think about what I am going to do (more years of training to become only half of what I want to be); I think about who I am (a frustrated train passenger waiting for her delayed train to arrive); I think about you.

My mind's whirring now, intoxicated by insecurities and worries. I take a deep breath amd find my chest tightening - all this just at the thought of you. I think about how loneliness was once my subjected neccessity.

I had been abandoned by someone I thought I could depend on and in my loneliness, had to nurse the wounds this person left me with.

Subjected because I never asked for this. A neccessity because it was a valuable life lesson I needed to learn.

I feel sick. The insecurities of abandonment and rejection is making my head swim. So much so that I almost didn't notice the train that whizzed by at full speed. I look up, startled. I can see the many faces of the passengers it contained but I couldn't focus - eveything blurred and swayed as I tried to look at the train - but then it passes...and the train disappears into the distance.

I kept looking at the point in which the train last left the platform - it was gone now, no doubt still continuing it's journey through Surrey, through a route which I wasn't taking and I thought about where those many faces I saw were going.

When my train pulls up (twenty minutes later and an hour late), I have almost forgotten about that fast train which made me jump. But when I did finally remember it as my train began to depart, I spared it a thought...and then I thought about you, about how you came not at the right time, but at a time after a life-jerking startle and how you could have to bear the burden of someone else's past. I don't want that.

As I get off the train, I feel better and make my way home. I leave the train which was bound for Central London and think no more of its contents. I am finally back in my flat; I can now relax and forget about today...and plan my tomorrow.

Battle Scars (in the Form of Memories)

Nights like this are plagued with unwanted memories and wandering minds. I think about...

What I think about isn't important actually. I should be focusing on reality. In reality, I'm lying in bed embellished with the clean sheets straight from the wash - I can smell the fragrance of chemicals which so harshly attacks my olfactories (that's 'nose' to those of you who failed Biology in school). It's.comforting to know that they are sterile.

To my left, in this reality, is an open window which, in the height of summer, serves neither to cool nor to let the light in (because my room faces south). So 75% of the time, I am plunged into a stiflingly hot darkness.

To my right is, well, a wall which is just as blank as my imagination. It holds no photographs or memories of anything good or bad. All of these pictures and memories obly exist in my head, rightly so, because some of these memories should never be visualised or discussed.

In reality, I am a beaten individual who, by no stretch of the imagination, can be fixed. In reality, I bear the scars from other individuals and the scars I give myself. In your reality, however, I am okay, fine, doing alright etc. But in my reality, I can see how I am broken inside.

Rain

The rain brings a heaviness;

it's tropical and torrential

breaking new light in the wake of its leave

relieving and refreshing

bringing new life to young eyes

Airports

Lines in airports
double up with people
and inpatience.

This Place

Knowing that I was leaving, I put on a façade...and I disowned it. By 'it' I mean this place - this place which was home to me for four years; that's almost half a decade may I just point out. When you've only lived for twenty years or so, that almost-half-a-decade takes up a significant percentage of your life. And yet, I was still able to disown it. Not without some tears and heartache if I may add, because, this was the place where I grew up (in four years) and watched people change as I changed. These streets, I knew them all, and the people, I knew how they worked. I knew everything about this place - but I disowned it, to save me from homesickness and loss. I disowned it because I knew, in leaving, I'd love it too much.

Funny

Funny
you never mentioned
how you were hurt
or angry.
Funny
how it all came out now.
Words unspent
on understanding
or expressing
become weapons
in time
and it's just funny
how you chose to
say them all now;
even funnier
that you think
you've said it all before.

Cobbled Streets

These cobbled streets

I know

have been left behind

on a whim

in pursuit

of somewhere else.

These cobbled streets

I loved

have been abandoned

by me

but adopted 

by others.

These cobbled streets

will form new memories

for others

but not for me

because I left them behind

in my pursuit

for somewhere else.

Running Out

Running out of lines

we dance under chandeliers

prolonging what's left;

we notice the months go by

and here we are

hand-in-hand

and speechless.

Running out of time

we watch the lights fall

and we dim into 'The End';

'Happily ever after'

was not to be

and we part

without looking back.

Find

Songs beautiful

short and sweet

like rain in summer

brief and intense

warm like you.

I remember something 

in the night

nothing like anything

I can

hold. It dies

living me

in the dark

and I wonder:

where have you gone?

I feel the tune;

it hums at me

telling me

to find you.

Where do you lie?

I grope in the dark

and you're

nowhere. Nowhere

to be seen or found;

you lie...you lie...

Come closer

so that I can feel you

hand on hand

on elsewhere 

for songs

to drag us away

and you can
find me too.

To be Taken Away

A train speeds by Clapham Junction on its way to Haslemere and I remain here. It is cold - winter's air was whipped up by the speeding train and an overwhelming cold front bears down on the platform I'm standing on. As the train disappears, I feel the anti-climatic silence it left in its wake.

I want to go home.

The next train will be mine. 20.52, the sign reads. It is now 20.32. I'm waiting patiently. I desperately want to get out of this cold. London feels so alien to me and nothing here feels real enough for me to grasp - the place, the people - the workings of Greater London is a mystery to me.

I can't wait to be home.

It's now 20.39. I wonder about time and how its brought me here. Four years ago, I was living with family and now I am on my own - not completely; I am with friends - well, not exactly; they're in Surrey and I'm waiting to get on that train which will bring me through the winding train lines of the London-Surrey border so that I can go home. 

I wish I never left home.

It's 20.50. They just announced the train for Portsmouth is pulling into the station - this is my train. It pulls in front of me exactly at 20.52 and the doors open. As people disembark onto the platform, I leave it, taking my bag with me. It is a small bag with just enough clothes for one night because that's all I'll be needing. The train begins to pull away from Clapham Junction, and within seconds, we pick up speed and the view outside becomes a mass of incomprehensible colours and forms. I'm very excited.

I'm almost home.

Stay as Sweet as You are

Stay as sweet as you are

when times get hard

on the ford of River Wey

and then you can hear

the songs we sang

once a long time ago.

We're gone now

distant and cold, on shingles

and broken glass

like the night we trod on them

drunk, fresh from the bar.

We no longer exist;

we're just you and me

and where you are

I won't know any more

but be you here

or there

remember to stay

as sweet as you were

so that I 

can remember you

like the way you were

the day we said goodbye.

The Illusion of Photos

I have my life
strewn across the bed
in pictures
held still in time
with the corners
dog-eared as if
they could stop
the past from
overflowing
at the edges.

We hold a smile
in every photo
just for the photo
and we'd then disappear
into the background
and frown
and sneer for
no one to see
but ourselves.

Now I have these photos
which bore no truth
but only illusion
where neither you
nor I knew we created
but now it's clear
that we lied
to each other so much
that it came out in photos
piercing like fire.

Locked in

It would rain outside 

sky souring to grey

and I'd hide away

unsure where to go

stuck in my head

whirring, reeling, 

uncomfortable realisations.

where did I go?

Clarity in words

never formed straight lines,

coherent sentences,

or sense.

They stayed ravelled,

confused, convoluted

like past arguments

on rape and sex

and on what makes them

assault or pleasure.

What we hide from

stays hidden under

duvets and stained covers

like the buried dead

still writhing in graves

but where do you run

when all you're left

is yourself and a closet

with a lock at the door

and a darkened room

to ponder and repeat

the mistakes in your mind?

Open

to misinterpretation

it all falls

never-into place

and they lie like 

fragmented pieces

in the closet with 

you

on a dark rainy day.

Portsmouth Harbour via Guildford; calling at Woking, Guildford...

Because when I boarded this train

I knew I was going home.

Please

Please take me back on weekends
I can't see beyond veils
I can't touch beyond walls
I can't feel beyond impasses.

Please take me back to before
so that I don't grow up
so that I can slow the pace
so that I can be me again

Please take me away
and I won't have to grow,
see, touch, feel
and miss what's gone.

Take me away,
far away
and I will forever be thankful that you did.

Songs speak Interpretations

Is this the place I've been dreaming of

I need somewhere to begin

This could be the end of everything

...somewhere only we know.

Awkward silences 

stand

more pronounced 

than words themselves.

To admit

Because if I said...
let's change the subject
and talk about the time we met
under the influence
of friends and ambience
when the future was scary
and we saw no further
than tomorrow. And when
we spoke under midnight stars
about things
which didn't matter
but we listened
intently and spoke deeply
about trivialities.
But now all I have
is a room full of things
which matter
hardly-at-all
and the more I look
and scour for memories
the more I find
nothing-much-else
of you and me.
But yet I keep quiet
and get about my day
like the pavement pounders
of inner London
and pretend
for the world
I'm not empty inside.
Because if I admitted
that I miss you
I would cry
and be gone forever.

Exist

All of my problems exist in my head.
You only exist in my head

ALONE.

What you know

Only here will I speak
to you about
love, life and tears
that fall and break
like glass and ice.
And then there will be
silence so
deafening and deathly
like cold hands on hearts
and the last of breaths
that to define otherwise
would only put me to shame
but you - you will only hear
and see what bubbles up
to the surface and
you will play
the part of ignorance
until truths
come to light.
And then, only will I
speak about everything
you didn't know
and watch your face crumble
into tears and pain.

Will remind me of you

One day
this song will remind me of you
tussled in memories
which merge and split
unbearably difficult to untangle.
With the dying light
there will be ghosts
and imprints which find
their way down the pathways
buried under time
which loosens the bricks and stones
becoming undone.
One day this song
will remind me of you
when you are no longer here
and I can only hold you
and feel you
when the music plays on its own.

Home is built on awkward silences

Unspoken

We reword
rephrase,
pause,
and look;
it doesn't make sense now.
Words jumbled
ambiguous,
obscure, hiding
intentions confused
by feelings, emotions,
unspoken thoughts;
and then we part
one right
one left
and that's that then,
all because
we couldn't speak

Vignette #4

The stories I've written are part imagination and part reality. The people within my stories are real and walk, breathe and live in the very same dimension which I am writing and you are reading from. But what these people do and say are based on imagination, the translation of desires and wishes. 

In these stories, I write about you and my imagination navigates your actions, dictating your future within each vignette.

I like these short stories - they are individually little worlds of their own...worlds which are perfect in my eyes. 

Vignette #3

In here, things are perfect. No one doubts each other, no one fights. Everything is perfect.

If only you could look in and see how perfect things really are. 

On a Cold Night

Winter was still barely ebbing away that night. It was cold and the wind whipped at my skin the whole way to the bar and yet when I got in, it still felt cold - to me anyway. I was miraculously offered a seat by an elderly man who insisted I sat on this crooked stool at the end of this table. I felt guiltily obliged.

As the night went on, I could feel the cold from outside finding its way in, maybe perhaps the entrance door left ajar...or perhaps it was all in my head. I shivered and hugged myself to keep in what warmth I had left and swore when more people came in through the door, letting in another wave of cold. What more, I didn't know any of these people and they were walking in my direction.

I should probably end this story there because I made a friend that night by striking some slightly awkward conversations about my career aspirations and my strange interest in minimalism. I guess that was it really. I didn't have to do much more than that and suddenly the room seemed to warm up.

Songs and Minds

Don't play with songs;
they twiddle with your mind
telling you things that
don't exist
in this world. They
aren't lies
but misperceived
non-events
and non-parallels
which everyone hears
and sees.

Silence

Silences hold themselves
in place
for you and me
between fences and distance.
Silences walk with us
through hedges and trees
lying between us
like the front door
which I shut before you.
The key I hid
under my scarf
silently lying over my heart
and you left knowing
it was there
till silence came crashing
in storms - tempestuous
and hidden behind
the door
until it finally flooded
out beyond these walls
only to end, with you
walking away
and me standing behind the door
silent, oh
so deathly silent.

It's almost like waking up

It's almost like waking up
where breath settles heavily
under duvets and pillows
and light burns through windows;
eyes stay open barely,
taking in nothing but
moving shadows and figures
which slither under the covers.
Grabbing at the waist,
it pulls you under
and you're barely awake
drowning unconsciously
and breaths become precious
and the then you resurface
into reality and realise
it's almost like waking up
but really, it isn't at all.

Because You are More Beautiful Now

I don't know if mum ever told you
you were
ugly, stupid
stubborn
unloveable
troublesome
hell.

Well, she was probably right, in her eyes. You did make a mess of your room and never cleaned up after yourself; you did act out in school, causing your teachers to ring home almost every other day; and you did use to throw tantrums over the dining table. All this would happen while the rest of us sat quietly over our roast dinner with our eyes darting between you and mum, looking out for signs of an outburst. And of course, every night, it came - you'd lash out and then mum would lash out; before we knew it, there would be this break out of harshly articulated words and profanity, and then you'd run upstairs, lock yourself up in your room and cry.

But there was that one night when you ran upstairs and locked yourself up in your room and, presumably, cried for some time. I guess that was the night you also had had enough.

Had I known you'd had enough, maybe I would have gone upstairs and pried open your door to see what you were up to. But, I guess, there's no point thinking about that now.


I wish you could see yourself for the way we see you. Mum certainly didn't see it that way until that night when we didn't hear you sobbing in your room. We called your name and then shouted and then screamed - but you didn't open the door. So we pried it open with dad's crowbar and when the door finally swung open, we found that you had gone.



I don't know if mum ever told you
you were
ugly, stupid
stubborn
unloveable
troublesome
hell...

...but I can assure you, she never meant it; and now, more than ever, she wishes she hadn't meant it at the time because, now, you are more beautiful than ever. Your pink chiffon dress falls on you so perfectly and your hair caresses your face so elegantly, so much so, you don't look like the angry girl who stormed off upstairs, locked herself up in her room and, presumably, cried. You look different - you are more beautiful now.

Communication

Talk
to me.

Words die softly on your lips.

Tell me what
you're thinking.

Your mind goes blank
and you fall short on words.

My heart stops
me from holding back tears.

And words die softly as minds go blank.

Insecurities

I fear the words will dwindle over time - I've seen it many times before when contact shrinks, shrivels and dries up.

I like the facade I put on. It makes me think I can laugh and smile and what more, it makes you think I can laugh and smile when actually I can't.

I want to be less detached and less aloof. I want to be caring and warm but I think I am scared to be - scared I will lose something that could have been.

I wish I could wish for more - or rather I wish I were brave enough to wish for more.

Vignette #2

If I had to write a story about you, it wouldn't be autobiographical; it would be about what I thought you were thinking and what I think you would do. 

Between Throat and Tongue

Words trapped between 

throat and tongue - 

they won't move

or be heard.

They die

creeping into your mouth

only to be spat out

in your hand

at the wrong time

at the wrong place;

you never got to say it right

never got to

present it

perfectly.

They now lie here in ruins

left unsaid

for too long

till there isn't much left to do

but sigh and wish

words did not get trapped

between throat and tongue.

Vignette #1

This is where I'd write stories about you - here, in my diary, where you can't read it. It's about you and how good times would waver away silently in the summer heat. It will be like you, fragile and unexpectedly small. 

Shall we begin?

Better than you would have

Train tracks decrepit

worn and lost for 

lust and hunger which

feed starving men 

on hold for hours 

losing life, losing time;

so much for love

and the touch of one

but hopelessness stays

unavoidable and piercing

like sun on skin

peeling and burnt 

red and raw

worse than salt

in an open wound.

Driving

Because it matters more that I am back
behind the wheel
driving on roads
with potholes and cracks,
road barriers in place
and then we talk till dusk
when the world turns away
rolls over and sleeps
and we keep driving
on roads with
potholes and cracks.
road barriers in place
because it matters more
that I am back
behind the wheel
and I'll get us there
I promise you, I will.

Songs Intertwined

Nothing's as it was before

I don't dictate how the future comes and goes. It just changes as it likes and unfolds in ways I don't expect it to.

I know I won't see you again

Have I had things my way, there would have been a lot more conversations about how things fell and disintegrated in our hands. And there would have been more understanding...on my part.

the feelings that we used to know

It's all gone now, right? It's all gone.

Different Sides

Farewells on Platform 6

[standing on Platform 6, for the train bound for Portsmouth Harbour]

Perhaps there was something
left unsaid
as you boarded the train
to somewhere not far away.
The farewells squandered
by the rush of time and quick footsteps
on platforms. Concrete, brick,
cement, metal all play unwitting games
on the mind as time moves too
quickly. It moves like
it has a mind of its own
forgetting how life swallows
friends, family
love.
And so a wave goodbye
is slowly forgotten
as she is left on the platform
that slowly disappears behind a bend
and in time it all goes,
memories dissolving into pasts
dying like roses in winter
and then withering away
silently into nothing.
And in your hand you hold
that last goodbye
which was destined to die
almost like how you did
on a train bound for nowhere.

Tempestuous

Unpublished

Here's the letter you never read
and I never sent:

Dear you,

I think this is a letter long overdue - it's been more than a year and, in fact, it's approaching two and you still haven't heard from me. But that doesn't matter, does it? I mean we were like two lines travelling towards each other and then missing the contact point and continuing on elsewhere.

Dear you,

I think you never cared. There was a cold silence in the room next door as I packed up to leave. You never asked or perhaps, never even wondered what my next adventure was going to be. I suppose it wouldn't be any of your business but it would have been nice to know that a passing of presence would still play on your mind as I left for good.

Dear you,

We are beyond apologies. They lie stagnant at the tip of our tongues - they've been rendered redundant by time and they're now forgotten, unspoken, like your mind and the memory of me. I guess you can forget now just like how I've forgotten...but not forgiven. Apologies may no longer mean anything but the resentment will still stand like gravestones pitched over the grave of my memory of you.

So here is this letter which you will never read. It lies somewhere at the back of my mind - an undelivered message born out of disgust and dirt - but it's okay. I mean every word of it.

Yours truly
The Author of the Letter that was Never Written

In Surrey

In Surrey
many things are found
in the form of
people and places
and sometimes
people in places,
in darkened pubs and bars
lit by candles
and cigarette butts
of unnerved smokers.
Sometimes you meet
a person in a place
under unexpected
circumstances
and you weren't ready
so they catch you off-guard
and you're left gaping
and frightened
of the unknown
and the unpredictability
that only time will unveil.
So, sorry my friend
you left too soon
under your own
circumstance, but
there was so much that
came after you went
that to talk about it
would be undermine its
significance because here
in Surrey is a story
that begins so suddenly
that neither person nor place
can wholly explain.

I think you know

Over there.........................

............................................there....................

I did tell you where............

You chose to ignore

like you always do

blanking me out 

when I tell you things 

you don't want to hear

Shall I sing you a tune

It goes like this:

Look how they shine for you. Look how they shine for you. Look for how they shine

Look at the stars...look at how they shine for you...

I think you know.

Distance

This is where time spans over space
through heavy breaths of engines,
motors and nothingness. In a void
we fly and you disappear from my sight
into distance and far-ness until you became
nothing but a memory
barely within reach. Where did you go
beyond those hills and plains?
Will I see you again
waving across waters
so vast we couldn't hold our breaths?
Maybe we were meant to be lost
without a trace
into the back of minds
and unenvisioned thoughts
where all we have are tattered visions
of what could have been
and the silence of knowing it's all lost
and not to be found.
Where did you go? I'm still looking
for you in the dark
lost like children
left astray in fields
too small to see
beyond the blades.

Nights

Skies dim in the evening
and I remember the halls darkening.
The girls come back
scantily dressed in bikinis and rags
and grass blades on their legs
when no one was home
but a darkened corridor
and a creaking door to greet them.
It's lonely on the marshes
where the boys sat
on their own, by the swings
wishing they were by themselves
but no
they return
to scantily dressed girls
in bikinis and rags
and a darkened corridor
and a creaking door.
It's never been lonelier
surrounded by others
only to wish there was
maybe, perhaps
a way out.

Where did you go?

How do people disappear
out of sight
somewhat
out of mind
until brought to light
in death and loss.
Where did you go
when I wasn't watching?
On to the tracks,
wandering aimlessly
tripping over planks
and pebbles
which cut
and graze - and suddenly
you're gone
in the breeze
of a passing train,
headlights and all
and there isn't a sign
you were once there,
just a memory
so distant
so abstract
that we can't cry,
but just stand
gaping
in disbelief.

Broken Kitchen Tiles

We've over-stepped boundaries

and it's broken. Like tiles on a kitchen floor

worn and tired, they give way

under the weight of nothing;

fragile like glass that cuts

so deep. Blood is drawn, under

the weight of emotions

that run unbeknownst to

you and me. And then

it mends itself, in the hand

and in the heart like a

miracle which judges not by the past

but what is had now, hopefully

better than what was 

and better than what would ever be.

To the Friend whose Voice I can still remember.

On a page we wrote
about how we'd grow
and age into death
and how we'd learn
and love with others
we cherish.

But how did you go
before you could grow
and while you were still
learning and loving?
How did you disappear
so suddenly
in a flash
of headlights
so quickly
we didn't see-
you didn't see...

On a page we wrote
about how we'd grow
and age into death
but now it seems
you've skipped the
chapters between birth
and death, leaving us all behind
gaping, wondering,
in shock and sadness
wishing you were still here
to finish the book
you'd barely begun.

Why is there No Sky?

Why is there no sky?

Drums tease under deep muttering,
walls stained red with spotlights.
Only the smell of singed cigarettes
dotting the room
denoting cancer-ridden lungs
burnt and tarred, thick like
toffee - stuck, chewed,
hard like shingles
on the beach of Brighton
where the pier gave way
to a view of the sky
which we could never reach.

Why is there no sky?
I thought they were the limits
but yet we can't touch it
only see it and assume it's there.
But then carried away by
the sound of drums, you drift
like the acrid smoke you smell
and forget you are there
only to find the higher you go
the closer you are
to feeling it.

I told you

Did I tell you
that you struck gold
holding on to the sun
while you played the drums
to Buckley and Keane
the former having died
in a river not far from here?

Did I tell you
that trees speak
in the wind as they
creak and hush
in the lights of suns and moons
almost silent, unnerving
crying for your hands
to hold them for now and ever?

Did I tell you
someone's waiting
under the blue moon
for you to come
and place a caring hand
on their heart
and tell them
that you'll be there?

I think I've told you
all of this
by the picket fence
all those years ago.
You never came
when blood ran
and when you realise
and you fall on silent words
suddenly sullen
suddenly speechless.

Line-crossing

There's a point where lines no longer cross...and perhaps never will again. Let bygones be bygones, you know? It all started on a leaves-littered pavement and it ended in the stifling heat of  summer, on the same pavement. That was the point the lines crossed for the last time and then left for better things in the not-so distant future.

The journey beyond the crossing point was surreal - there was no direction or guidance. Not any more. And the prospect of moving away left a deep sense of loss. Eyes will no longer meet, paths will no longer cross, words will be left unheard and dead in the wake of the next autumn. But now on for more journeys beyond the crossing point, beyond autumn's anniversary and winter's cold - what's left is spring and summer. But who's to say it'll be like the last?

Those lines may no longer cross, but there will be more lines to come.

Leaving on a Train

It's like losing you again.
The platforms have never been so cold
in spring where April showers rain down.

Tar Roads

I like to think that there's still a child out there - the one who was always playing on the roads and getting her dress torn on the hedges on either side. She would play on the tar which burnt on hot days but kept her warm on cold nights. It was home, almost, and it told her where to go. It was paved for her, just for her...to follow and guard her from going astray into the hedges. Eventually, that road would end at a dessert, dotted with hedges, some with snakes hiding behind them. And so she was told to go wherever she liked.

I like to think there's still a child out there - or rather, I like to think there's a road out there for the child.

By and Like

It's like it's being relived
under deathly sights
of non-company
and tragic loss...

...what am I talking about?
My mind's running away with me
into a sunset
dead by night
followed by dawn
and down by dusk
forgotten by the next
second? Hour?
Week? Month? I
don't know...

...you've followed me from death
up to resurrection
and to the heavens
I do not believe in -
they're all lies
like you and because they are
they deserve life not,
like the sun that's set
like the devil that's dead.

Your Eyes Open

There's something about...
...this library...

It isn't silent - not at all...in fact, there's a heavy bustle of bewildered students shuffling up down the rows of computers. No one's completely silent - the boy at the end of one row is munching on crisps, the girl next to me is on her mobile and I'm, well, tapping my feet to the beats of Keane's "Your Eyes Open".

It's a lonely road that you have chosen...

I guess that's what's weird about this library - you're surrounded by people and even if you're absorbed in your work you are constantly reminded by the occasional clinks of pens and the constant white-noise of muffled voices. Nowhere's silent here.

It's a lonely place that you have run to...

Despite the people around you, you still feel lonely. Actually, it feels even lonelier than being on your own in your darkened box room. It could be because you're forced to sit at your seat and focus on your assignment. But it might also be the fact that, despite all the people who were in the library with you, not a single one of them is a familiar face - everyone's a stranger, nobody's a friend - and the shoulder you once could lean on, is nothing but a desire which floats aimlessly at the back of your mind. Now, all you have in the forefront is a computer screen which shines eerily in the darkened library as night approaches and everyone goes home.

Till the moment your eyes open and you know...

And suddenly, you realise that you're truly alone...

Trees Overhead

They're tall,
aren't they? Like ethereal beings
showering you with red, yellow
and gold. It's like
a dream which never ends -
their height, stature
grandiosity
leaves us in awe
wishing we could be like them;
but, alas, we're small
and weak, and
undermined
like the children we are
and we become manic in
depression to make us wish
we could be the one
showering others with
red, yellow and gold

I didn't see you today

I didn't get to see you today;
I missed you in the corridors
and on the pavement
where we once met under
autumn trees. The sun was gold
and old and beautiful, throwing
a blanket of calm
over what was to be chaos
which would only quieten
under suppressed anger
and sadness whilst
I walked down empty
dreaded corridors I knew
all to well, is where you dwell
and so I ducked out of sight
of the familiar shuffle
and hoped not to be seen.

Maybe that's why I didn't see you
today in the corridors
or on the pavement
where we once met because
the trees were now in winter
and the sun was dampened
and dead, like the musings
of this lost child
who lost at the game and is
at a loss for words.

To Those We Lost

In time there were those to be lost
to time and space
and memories which vanish
into the thin air of mind
and then there were those
to be remembered
at the back of the mind
who reserve themselves
a seat behind the mind's eye
but are not any more
than your own memory
of the real one
which once existed
before your very eyes
but now do not and only
exist in the horizon,
out of sight.

Tides die slow

Children speak like ghosts,
their words soft and subtle
under sheets and covers
where feverish hands play host.

I'm Afraid of Crossing Your Path

I'm afraid of crossing your path...

...it quivers like fear in the dark light.
It wasn't always like that when times
were different. But, things have
changed in the child's half cries.

The Anti-climax

Boys and girls sat in rows
in hundreds
with pencils and
a ticking clock up front
ticking away time.
It's all disappearing -
self and thought,
they go into the light
shining harshly overhead.
Like children they sit
where no child should be
first thirty, twenty
then ten
more minutes
and then it ends
in an anti-climax
not representative of
the weeks and months
or day before.
But anyway it ends,
no one speaks
or thinks
and then they let us go
and we leave.
Men and women
walk through the door
and it's dark outside
so putting on our coats
we walk home
mind more restful
but burden none the more
lifted.