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Slit my wrists
and die,
grow feathered wings
and learn to fly.

Its Time…

Its time now, to make sence of things, things that have clouded my vision for years. Things that seem black and white, that have never been introduced to color. Things locked away and caged, burnt down, yet built up. Its time now, to make sence of things, things that have clouded my vision for years.

Within

Letters to you addressed, unsent An old post card, crumpled and bent Faded, grey photos of times past The clasp of a ring box, tight and fast.

Listen

I Listen… Listen, to the drip, dripping of the tap and the low puring of an engine as its car crawies slowly by and the creaking and moaning of floorboards as the house around me begins to breath and the slow, monotanous, tapping of the rain escaping to the ground.

Forbidden

Would I be wrong, to write you a love letter or laugh at your jokes. Would I be breaking the rules If I held your hand. Would I be over stepping boundaries If I kissed you. Would they condem me If I said ‘I love you’.