the violation in picking flowers

Long grass was supposed to be our comparison to our childhood

but now i all think of is allergies and bee stings.

i dont enjoy the poppies,

far too flamboyant in that red dress,

tapping her black shoes until till we are a heaving migraine 

of self-pity and poppies.

It is a violation to pick flowers

the abortion of a blooming field.

Leave the flowers child

and back to the long grass I go,

water dripping down the tip of my nose

whilst the poppies dance once again.

Shakespeare beat me to it but i thought i was in love

To compare the moon to you would be a sin

with her ever changing pattern of sadness

To compare you to a daisy,oh how would i cry

for her plain petals could never douse your passionate heart

To compare the summers day

 in all honesty would be best

For the biting ants and sunshine glare

would most definetly be best to compare

I destest the thought of everlasting love

soon to compare me to that of a dead flower

letting the sun wither me away

in the fields of comparison

Words from a carrot cake splattered notebook

Sunshine streaming dust

Blake would have said it better

but the ice cream is all gone 

and the tears are all finished

I dislike our presence in the library

I dislike your presence in my memory 

boots are scuffed and muddy

sleeves are soggy and wet

the tea went cold

I dislike your presence in the kitchen

I dislike your presence in my memory

The milk is off 

thick,vile and yellow

much like the protection of your heart 

get out wild beast

lead your trail of rotting nostalgia somewhere else.

one time i just mixed words like a cake and the result was arrogrance.

WRITING LITTLE WORDS

the little words dance and groan in my mouth

silly words which serve no meaning other than sounding pleaseing to the ear of a stranger.

at some godforsaken time of midnight is when the little words are born

imagine that of thousands of bubbles being delivered  between the legs of a thesaurus,

the torn out libary pages and dog eared steals from school.

this is not a confession,

simply the beginning 

the little words are diseases of the mind

romanticizing the horrors of what should and should not be conformed or condoned

they are the leaky eyes of the last pomegranate on the rotten tree

mere words or ocillating comparisons repeating themselves until 

heaving up the result;

the out of tune piano recital,

the burnt bread.

this is not a confession

this is an illusion,

of a self pitying prince wishing himself in a castle to complain of dragons and loneliness 

these are the odd words which dance in my mouth and on my fingertips

i am no poet

i am just trying to find my way

in the upsidedown reality of  breakfast before brushing your teeth

and taking your clothes off before your shoes

these words are tunes i wish to play

this is me calming down

breathing in the words

and repeating them in my head

the traffic lights are confused whilst pigeons are the image of anarchy

i am done

the words have left me

these are not confessions

these are just words.