Unrequited love (poem)

You know his favourite song
You know the names of his pets.
You even know his birthday
but yours, he always forgets.

You know his family history
you speak everyday.
You've known his embrace,
but he will always walk away.

You know the smell of his skin
You know where he drives.
You know his ambitions,
But you alone must strive.

He won't forget you.
He knows you to the core.
But he's is unaware of,
the love that you once bore.

This genuinely brought a tear to my eye when I read it...

This genuinely brought a tear to my eye when I read it - it's a quote from "The Perks of being a Wallflower", one of the most influential books I have ever read.

"We accept the love we think we deserve".

I think anyone who has read those eight heartbreaking words, has been haunted by them ever since. I know I have. 

I don't get homesick....

I don't get homesick, I didnt think I would. I don't miss the town, or the streets, or the places. I don't miss the noise, or even the people. I miss leaving my home and knowing someone out there, in that ignorant little town, would be someone to recognise. A friend, family, a hate, a love.

But maybe, that is why I'm not homesick - because Im not the sad little girl that they remember. And I never will be.

Books (poem)

Books give us

something

for which we crave

They journey from lust

to love,

and from cradle

to grave.

Books drag

us

into worlds unknown.

The sky,

the sea

and the fields we

sew.

Books show us

what we

need.

They help us to grow,

to learn:

and to finally

be free.

Bound

to each other

begging for a look

these inked white pages

are far more,

than a book.

You and me

(written after reading Part One of Perks of being a Wallflower)

Idle by,
you and me
forever observing,
who we're supposed to be.

Laughing out loud.
Them at us - 
Forever learning
who we cannot trust.

Struggling,
side by side.
Secreting the tears,
we know we must hide.

Don't you worry,
because one day,
I will wipe your tears away. 

When a Siren calls...

She may look sweet -
she might even be kind.
But her life's aim,
is to break your mind.

When a Siren Calls:
it's the sweetest thing.
It's what sailors lust for,
the wenches that sing.

Her lullaby calls,
and it's his undoing.
"Her love I know!"
He cries as she will sing.

Bewitched at sea,
his grave will say,
death after lusting,
When the Siren called that day.

The Death of a Writer

The sunlight shadowed her as she sat quietly at the desk of her tiny office. One door. One window. One chair. One desk. Hundreds of document files, papers, notebooks: crammed into that box that she called an office.

Hand on her head, and the other grasping the black-ink roller ball: she waited. 

The words would come, they always did. Sometimes it took seconds, sometimes it took days, but they always came to her rescue in the end.

But today, the words hid from her. Nib never touching Page. The ink not soaking itself into the blankness of the page, nor glorying itself into the strength of the written word. 

The writer breathed in and out, in and out, in and out. and sighed. She needed the words today - of all days. The day she met him, she thought nothing of it - the man with a spare room and an office for her. A man with eyes so dark she lost her mind every time she looked at him. A man standing in the doorway, watching her every move. 

Today, her life depended on the one thing she thought she would never lose: her words. And today, she was going to die.