We’re picking stitches out of the floor…
Are normal people ever this bored?
To the point of self-destruction
In order to feel some direction?
We’re catching comas to
Taking pills when we’re
Of course we feel the sting of promises
Beneath our skin,
We’re suns just waiting to happen;
Hearts just waiting to break.
Or have you forgotten the power of now?
Four little teacups sit on the wall,
And four friendly voices drift on the still, country air.
They sit down by the boats and talk about the good weather,
And family, and how Johnnie from across the way is doing much better.
They listen to the sounds of a dozen little birds,
To the gentle laps of blue water,
And wave hello to those who walk past.
They wait for the sun to disappear
Behind the pier;
To depart down the path,
To four little houses sitting in a row.
I’m brooding over a mug
Of black coffee at 4am,
Trying to warm my cold bones
And broken heart…
I drink green tea
After my morning yoga;
I’m about as happy as it gets.
Unfortunately mountains poses
Don’t sell quite as well
As moonlight and despair.
She’s cursed me,
This mind of mine,
And now we’re creeping through nightmares
I used to dream of gold in my bed at night,
But now I just follow her down.
Bury the hatchet,
Or better yet burn it
And scatter the ashes so far across the sea
We stand no chance of digging it up.
‘Cause I know you,
You’ll get bored and start looking.
At least this way
We can only stand on the beach
And reminisce in what
It used to be.
I know you fancy yourself to be quite the artist,
But the rest of us just see it as graffiti;
Walls and walls of words
Hell-bent on ruining everything
You spent your life building.
Burn it to the ground,
Something or other will rise in its place.
Bend Hell into whatever shape you wish;
It will reform sooner or later.
Yes, I think I will stay for another,
For just a little while longer.
There’s the smell of loneliness in the air
And I am in no rush.
Tell me stranger,
Why doesn’t forever always last for…
My feet feel like stormy seas,
Leading me away from shore.
My hands feel like cloudy skies,
Grasping at nothing but fog-
Feeling nothing but rainfall.
My eyes see like rocky ground,
Littered with rubble from the past.
Wrapped up in bobble hats
And borrowed scarves,
With fluffy socks tucked inside boots,
and hands tucked inside jumper sleeves
where we wipe cold noses
being nipped by winter.
We pop inside for a coffee
and a catch-up;
The warmth from inside steamed up
The cold from outside frosting up
We can only see hazes of
coloured lights and street lights
and shapes of people passing by
with shopping bags and old friends.
Jingle bells play over the clinks
of teacups and plates
and cosy conversation.
It’s the most wonderful time
Of the year.
You’ll find me by the canal,
or perched on the balcony-
Odd socks swinging four stories up,
Or bare toes tracing water-
een bier in my hand,
just window shopping the world.