People rarely surprise me. Even less people shock me, but every now and then comes that spark. Those things that take your legs from under you. 
Emotions are strange. Just when you think you’ve felt them all  someone defines a new one. 

How do you build something good from something bad. Deconstruction? Cut out the bad? Does the bad run right through it or is the bad only slight?  

Firstly you can’t build on bad anything and bad doesn’t magically cease to exist. You can ignore it, pretend and hope it’ll go away, but that’s ignorance at play just adding to the bad. 

Options are what you have. You work or you walk. It’s not about what you gain or lose, it’s about what you’re willing  to risk. 
Risk is possibly the wrong word, but it works for me. 

It’s like knowing someone has done something really bad and then introducing them to your friends. You too then become bad.

  
There’s a peace in poetry that only you can describe. An explanation of thought that until it’s written is a complete secret. Your visions, a word diagram of how life and people make you feel.  Everything I write stems from a feeling.  Today feels like one of those days where I could write continuously. Special days. Where people can unwittingly inspire words that would otherwise never come to light.  I don’t consider this a talent or a gift. Everyone can express pain and passion and love and hate. We just do it differently. Some of us keep secrets locked away, but I’m rubbish at that. They weigh heavily on my heart. Things fester sometimes and I need this outlet. Beauty is another reason I write. In this world of fake niceties and false meaning this is a truly honest depiction of what I see and feel. No holds barred. If I see ugly I write it even if it’s not as pleasant as the beautiful it has its place amongst it. Mood is everything for me. I can’t just write. “The cat sat on the mat” would only leave me wanting another cat…or mat. Only in losing can we truly feel loss. Storytellers can write chapters on it but unless they’ve felt it, it remains just a story, but for the reader it’s something different. It’s experiences had. It’s a connection to what’s unfolding before them. It’s the pictures they create from the words. It’s definitely why I connect with books more than films. I get to pick who becomes the hero or heroine, the villain or the beast. That any actor is capable of making us believe a portrayal is questionable to me, it’s the story that allows it.  I’d definitely rather stand on a field I’ve thought up, than make sense of one being shown to me. 

I guess that explains why I write and why I sometimes never finish what I’m saying. It doesn’t stop because punctuation demands it. A poem is open ended however you read it, the writer always has control of that. Everyone I meet plays their part be it briefly or intimately . As do those I’ve yet to meet. You are all my source. 

His fingertips bring such soft caress as they trace the outline of her dress. No fumbling now that moment passed. With every touch unlike the last. She’s unaware of the time and day. He makes the hours melt away.  

The sheets are crisp against her skin. She smells his flesh, she breathes him in. Under her breath she screams his name. She needs him now to stop the pain.  

On some nights the moon shone so bright that the sun sighed in envy of its light.

The luminosity upon the lake such subtlety could not be fake. No jarring light could match this calm. The moonlight comes to cause no harm. 

Human traffic is best at slumber. This noisy beast behind closed doors. The land breathes out our toxic fumes. The scars of our superiority wars. 
Our insignificance is uniquely obviouse on these still and moonlit nights. In our waking comes destruction as if it’s our given right. 
As the landfill gulls dive through the haze of this never ending tide.  We continue to relentlessly fool ourselves that time is on our side. 

  
Random spirals of words fall from my lips. Like an alphabet waterfall. forming logic from the drips.

Wading through outcomes and how it all should go. Like the director without direction. How am I supposed to know.

He’s wired to the mainframe, but the world passes him by. Finger on the pulse, but his well has long been dry. 

Replacement parts to fill the void whenever he grows cold. Those foot imprints by the sofa his story yet untold. 
But what a fine collection of tiny plastic limbs. All those limited editions of so many favourite things. 

The sunrise this morning was the brightest fiery orange. Stained with chemtrails, but no less beautiful. I wish I had a vantage point to watch its birth every morning.

I love how ink seeps across the page like blood in the snow. 

  
Feels like a Tuesday, but it’s definitely not. 

I’d happily sit just watching him move. How his fingers touch his face to brush his hair from his eyes. Still all in my imagination, but so deeply embedded now. 

I’d move mountains just to touch him. No shifting sands could stop this momentum he’s created. I’d turn it into hourglasses before time ran out. Just to start this again.  

No food can stop this hunger, this ache. It doesn’t stem from that place. It’s fuelled by the tempest. Sustained by a longing full of lust and desire. 

This table will be laid without cutlery or plates. It will be a banquet for the senses for the soul. Every jagged corner erased, every curve defined and rediscovered.