The shiny wall isn't always blue.

Blank stare
With grim expression.
A face that can only be related
To an empty pit,
Of something ill-fated.
But she's soft-centered,
A smile begins to melt the water,
The image falls, and begins afresh.
Something new, something young,
Something with a dress.
A woman that once sung 'impossible'
Now with a posture so strong, yet still fragile.
She's independant, she's renewed,
And beside her feet, is a glorious sight.
Unlimited tins of paint, unlimited light
To a canvas that is as wide as the horizon.
She became the artist.

My Monster

And just like that, the old man on the corner of the street began to laugh, his eyes widened and the veins on his neck began to grow. It did not take long for his height to stretch so tall to cast a great shadow that stripped the sky's light from my face. His crooked stance gave off such a thick darkness, it trapped the colourless air above and dyed it into a grey mist which quickly began to drown my lungs. His face was something I'll always remember, as never had I saw a grin stretch so wide.

The Scientist

"The experiment worked!" The scientist said, he looked at his fellow colleges who just nodded their heads. They did what they were told, and if the scientist was happy, so were they. That's how the system worked. And that's how it'll stay. It wasn't long before another situation arrived, all hands on deck, all sleep deprived. "It's time to get that engine rolling again!" The scientist bellowed, so loud the lab shook, and nearly broke the fragile glass below. The colleges obeyed and turned on the system, reading to observe the new mission, impossible situation rolling on the screen like a documentry film. It featured, as always, a twisted play, must like the ones you see today. But the ones you see are the ones on screen, the ones you'd pay to watch at eighteen.But this game wasn't just for fun, it was an experiment. That's what the scientist said, so that was what it was. This was the lab inside the head, of a mind that was never fed, learning for a mad cause.

Hanging on words that no longer rhyme.

So there I was.
Standing.
Just waiting.
Listening. Hoping. Longing;
For its voice to return,
To a familiar tone.
Not the angry one
That was displayed in front of me.
But all there was
Were thorny vines,
Creeping. Surrounding. Binding.
Wrapping around my insides,
Like a poisonous snake,
It’s words leaking into my veins,
Like a foul dye emptied into water.
Every new sentence
Began with an uglier word,
Distant. Cold. Heartless.
Is what they wanted to say.
But that isn’t what they said.

Stone stares with blank face,

Blackbirds tweet it's usual phrase.
No meaning in the song,
Just an intention to make the photograph
A forgotten memory.
She’s not like that, anymore. Anymore.

The Desk III - My Garden

I sit at my desk and look out through the window.
It is getting a little dusty.
Through the glass, I see the old garden I grew up with,
But the Anderson shelter is no longer at the end,
And there is another plastic greenhouse,
Rattling in the wind.
I think to myself,
If my life were a garden,
What would it be?
Would it have flowers,
And trees that blossomed,
Would it have leaves,
Left on the ground, forgotten?
Would it have an orange slide,
Or a broken swing?
Would it have a kite,
That would fly
Without string?

Generous warmth, sick heart

Cold hands hover over
An everlasting fire
and glow

Defeated is the darkness,
that surrounds the night.
destroyed by the embers
That burn bright

Yet I turn to the bars
of a prison cell
Forgetting the open door
In front of me.

I am in two worlds
My fabric has been ripped
into two pieces
Sitting in each dimension
Unware of it's other half.

A Wonderful Pair of Silver-blue Eyes

There was once a boy of fourteen,

Standing by the road

Watching leaves chase his feet,

As they ride the April wind.

For a moment, he becomes alone,

Blossom settles onto the ground,

And inside the hood of his favourite coat.

His silver-blue eyes watching the world,

From where he stood.

In the distance, the faint sound of engines

snorting fumes on the main road,

And the seagulls yelling irregular tunes

To the cloudy sky; of which was of a grey melody.

But his smile was warm,

His bright eyes forever shining,

For there was the most beautiful song,

Singing inside his heart.