Doctor.

"Take two of these, every night,
and some of these too, they'll make you feel alright,"
The disapproving frown turns again to a grin,
- late bed side manners finally kicking in.
And as other patients roll restlessly in their sleep,
he turns to me again, and waits for me to speak.
I tend to draw it out, since I know what he'll say,
he's the one with the degree and all the high-grade pay.
He doesn't take my advice, but I wish that'd he start,
because he only ever thinks with his mind, and never his heart.
"I've told you doc, it doesn't matter what you do."
Little does he know, my only cure is you.

Detective.

It was cold and dreary, your typical day,
except here she was in my office.
She lit up a cigarrete and it was like
watching the sun dawning,
a little star caught in my part of space
on a cold and dreary September morning.

She tells me she needs my help,
I can't quite believe that angel voice
is coming from someone so troubled.
I can tell her cheeks are still faintly moist,
from tears that once rolled,
but recently were doubled.

She tells me everything,
and comes close to tears once more.
I rest my hand upon hers.
I lie - 'everything will be just fine'.
Rinse and repeat until she's out of the door.

Buzz.

The dance begins with a sudden energy,
that bursts from the seams of the sequin dress.
The audience stares on in wonder,
and panic grips you and bids you no rest.

So you keep dancing,
and so does she -
both shaken by the same fears
and both loving the same energy.

But as the dance progresses,
the song's tempo seems to change,
and all of a sudden her dress is
not sparkling in the same way.

The panic's no longer there,
but neither is that electric buzz.
The dance slows almost to a halt,
and when you least think it will
it does.

Publish.

I feel sorry for those;
who sing, but aren't heard,
who write, but aren't read.
And who don't live,
but aren't dead.

Snow.

The sun shines into your eyes so bright,
that you have to shield them with your hands.
Memories of this place, from just last night,
make it feel like you awoke to different lands.
The neat and level covering of snow along the road
stands defiant in the face of traffic,
and forces cars to drive so slow
that in places they become static.
And even the beach,
wasn't out of its reach
- not being high tide, but low.
And to me it seems,
one of the perfect scenes.
As long as my school,
stays closed.

Guilt.

Her face is beautiful, her figure fine,
she was all the things you'd wanted,
she was everything, divine.
Yet beneath the angel wings,
lay a nest of wasp and hornet,
you could've looked and looked
but never seen the stings -
and who were you, to have known it?

And who were you, to salt the wound?
To tempt, to tease, then try to soothe,
it was not chess, and it was not your move,
but you made it - now lay in it,
and let your guilt forever be your tomb.

Distance.

I was cast ashore on some foreign land,
a suprising twist of foreign fate,
with no memory of another's hand
and with inspiration, but all too late.
And whilst surrounded by beautiful beaches,
lovingly cast against the bluest sky,
I sat on the furthest reaches,
the kind of which mind, nor money, can buy.

Darkness.

The pen seemed heavy in his hand,
not because of it's weight,
he was just scared what it would write, should it land.
Because despite his best efforts,
all his thoughts came out at night,
when he had nothing better to do
than sit at his desk and turn off the light.
But he thought there was poetry in that -
that the darkness should so clearly show
wrong, from right.

Icarus.

The simple truth was too simple for some -
that despite the story of poor Icarus,
there are still those that reach the sun.

Orbit.

The sun sets, and gives way for the moon,
Laboriously trudging through a thick web of violet
dashed with the colour of the clouds.
The sun sets, and some feel it's too soon,
as the colours in the sky begin to fade,
lost to tonight's murky shrouds -
that once held all the dreams I'd made.

And as the satellite parodies the sun's noon,
The sun prepares a new ascent
to brighten now dark pallettes.
And so the moon sets, and none feel it too soon,
as the darkness in the sky begins to fade,
lost to today's promising bets -
that once again hold all the dreams I've made.
And not a single one, to lose.

Breeze.

It's a cold street,
and the pavement is dressed in grey.
A single moment gets caught by the wind,
and through opens hands, slowly slips away.
My eyes don't blink,
and I don't miss a step,
my life just changed again,
and I didn't even stop to think.

It's a cold street,
and it'll get colder throughout that day,
A single moment gets caught by the wind,
And towards my open hands, it makes it's way.
My eyes don't blink,
but I miss my step,
my life just changed again,
but this time my heart won't sink.

Fine.

On the outside looking in, everything seems so fine,
but my life is a poem being written,
and I get stuck on every line.
I'm not interested in excuses,
I'm interested in our time,
it feels like it's falling short -
I feel like I've lost what once was mine.

Inspiration.

There's something about you,

of that much I'm sure.

But I'm not sure what it is you do,

or if it's the way you talk,

or the way you move.

I'm not sure, but that's part of the magic -

when a magician reveals their tricks,

well then the act becomes tragic.

So I'm not sure how you inspire me,

but I don't care,

as long as you promise you won't move too far from there.

Improv.

A lonely island, lost at sea,

and time and space and history,

but time moves on,

and so should I -

onto a land, with a bluer sky.

Hour Glass.

You saw your cards,

and you still played your hand.

Now you're waiting for the chips

to fall like hour-glass sand.

Shellshocked,

you froze.

There was nothing you could do.

So you sat and watched,

and carried the game through.

Every second was an hour,

and each hour, a day,

as down your face the beads of sweat

began to pave their way.

The final chance to leave,

sinks in like the claws of fear,

You're numb to all but the call

that the dealer now shouts clear.

They all saw your cards,

those that played their hands,

and you sat and watched as your chips

fell, like the hour-glass sands.

The Beach.

When Winter comes, the beach is mine,

cold, grey, but quiet and divine.

Then Spring signals the end of Winter,

calming winds that once blew bitter.

And with Summer comes the tide of noise,

of tourists, children and their toys.

But when Autumn shows it's tired eyes,

the noise fades, replaced by cold grey skies.

Her Song.

She was brave, and in her own way, strong,

but the pressures of the world had been too much for far too long.

Never one easily defeated

she fought till courage stood depleted.

And that was the night she changed her song,

the notes were right,

but sounded far too wrong.

Revolver.

The embrace of death sat uncomfortably in my hand,

cold metal against the heat of the barrel,

a small slither of smoke winding upwards into sight -

a vein of grey into flawless moonlight.

The cylinder sat, one chamber empty,

whilst the bullets awaited in numbers plenty,

the engravings on the case of each,

resonated throughout the night,

in plain view, yet out of reach

the memory fades, but the word I can't forget,

engraved into the silver case, read the word - "regret."

Eh.

Loss in Vain

Leaden hands sink bullets into hearts,

drowning out the protests as the thunder starts.

And the lightning that stabs at the ground

imprints its image in their minds.

Loss in vain as veins are lost -

Bloodlines erased before their time.

The twisted fruits of twisted vine.

Line by line.

Line by line

Watching the gold start to dull,

over time.

Watching pages start to fade,

line by line.

Waiting to feel it catch up with you

you're running.

But it's already here.

OH LOL.

Midnight moonlight dances on silver waves,

as forgotten footprints wash away,

with the forever ebbing tide of day.

Cool winds turn to bitter chill,

numb memories shared,

an advance into the unknown dared.

Risked.

And for what?