Catching rain in the headlight
to feed the weeds in the streets,
They don't grow much, anymore,
Anger makes them weak.

We've all heard the stories
Fight Fight Fight
We've all heard the stories
Rain and Headlights.

My pale hands are cupped beneath the sun
Drinking the water from it’s stream
Waking up, a view of us,
Bow and arrow from the seam.
I sink these bare feet into mud
To feel the dry earth crumble
Beneath my early morning skin.

Everyday I look at trees,
Stretching their gaping mouths toward the sun
When darkness rolls in
There’s melancholy and fear
Scrambling into their mouths.
It infects the ground I walk on now
Building up a street of crime
Sprites, ghouls and phantoms.

Sometimes they win the battle with the sun
Fires are lit
And the trees…

We are being driven somewhere; not too slowly yet not too fast, an unhealthy medium. The heat of the day a mere memory, the cold of the night distinct and uncomfortable on my exposed skin. I don't think there's a way to stop this moving, I don't think there's a way I can turn back.
He is a relentless driver, hand clasped on whip, the hooves are dug into the dust. Another mountain disappears.
"Where are we going?" I scream, but I realise the chain in my mouth stops any speech coming out, the only reaction is cold metal on…

So this is going to be a bit of a new thing… let's see how it plans out.

Hello Emillie Autumn into my life.
She has quite a number of brilliant songs including:
*Swallow
*Thank God I'm Pretty
*Marry Me
*Largo for Violin by

I'm pretty sure I aimed to be more descriptive..but I have suddenly lost enthusiasm… this will probably be a one off. hahaha

When the thunder and lightning danced in the sky
Her eyes sunk into melancholy blue
She brought out her duvet
And bright coloured maps,
With scissors she cut
And with sellotape spliced
A world free from it all.

Invented tales about ‘Sir Henry Waverly’
Who liked nothing more than soft cheese,
And ‘Lady Reynold’ who happily
Grew pansies but ranted of weeds.

Her favourite was a girl called Georgia,
A girl with an odd taste in men,
One particular time
She kissed passionately
A musical man on the stairs,
He played a sweet romantic melody
Then composed her an impassioned…

The Light Turns On.
I crawl from my slumber
And look at what the hours have made of me
In the mirror
In the window
My fingers stretch across my skin
Carving a face I would love for myself
Open the door
The life cogs turn.

The Light Turns off.
I crawl to my slumber
And wait for the hours to make
What they want of me
The mirrors drip with poison
And the window reminds me of outside
Blocked by blinds
The life cogs jam.

These flies fester in my futility
Crawling under my pale skin.

Walking the streets,
I do not feel the winter chill that bites those that surround me.
They cling to their coats and walk quickly home
Their eyes to the ground, wondering when spring will show.
Warmth? Is that what makes me like this?
Always reaching out a pale hand to a stranger
And ending up knocking on misshaped glass?

I admit to myself, as the small hours tick away
That I am not coping
But what am I not coping with?

His Love; now washed up on some sunny…