Know this...

 

Know this... that if I place

my trust in your hands, then

I love you. For my trust

has been stolen many times,

so now it only leaves

for those who matter

most to me.

It's like a bird, I release,

and I know it will only land

in the palms of some

island of destiny.

 

And if I ask for anything,

then you mean

more than the world.

For to ask is more

than words can say.

It means I am open

to you—a door that

usually stays closed,

locked, keys secure.

 

And if I offer my truth,

then know that you

hold my heart in your eyes.

For it isn't merely a token,

I don't give my

belief to just

anyone that looks on.

It is only for those that see

the real me.

 

I've given so much of me,

but I find taking is hard.

For to be given love is

a forest these roots

don't usually breach,

or a beach these feet

barely ever reach.

My arms stretch out,

but to be held is divine.

And that is something

I need to learn to accept

can sometimes be mine.

Shockwave of awakening

 

I scrambled through

the shockwave of awakening.

The bomb blast damage.

Severed limbs of who I'd once been.

Memories scattered in the wings,

hopes and dreams away on the wind.

And a song drifting, a simple childhood

melody. A song of joy, in a sea of debris.

A lifeboat, a requiem to infinity.

 

Driftwood on dry land.

 

And I picked at pieces,

worn edges cut at my fingers,

but I picked up the slivers.

And I turned them over, gently.

I guided my fingers

over their burnt remains,

feeling the charred surface fall away,

to see the shine within.

The glint of future,

starlight twinkling...

 

I see the reflection of my eyes,

a smile inside a fragment of glass.

And I pick up more

to see how they feel.

 

Are they sharp, are they soft,

are they warm, are they real?

Every movement shines new light,

brings new insight. Every broken part,

a new memory, a storied heart.

And I grasped them tight.

Red seeping into tomorrow.

To see what they made me

 

feel.

 

Who was I? Was he real?

Who would I be? How do I heal?

And what do I wish to see follow?

 

I didn't want to replicate

a carbon-copy former me,

that would be a mission of futility.

So, I began to create,

to build myself a new future,

letting art take me to a better place.

Using sticky-backed plastic

and tubs of old paint,

an empty Fairy washing-up bottle,

and I flew to the moon

in the rocket I transformed it into.

 

And I looked down, to work out my place

in the grand scheme of things.

I didn't want to be a king of kings,

but a singer of others' dreams.

I want to be someone who gives,

but also, someone willing to receive.

And I know in my heart, I believe,

that I am

someone who can shed a tear

and throw some light

onto the stage of your memories.

 

But I'd need to build a better me.

One who wears a smile instead of tears of grief.

 

I took memories and I held them to the light

to shine on the intricacies,

to work out the discrepancy,

to file away redundancy

in a cabinet labelled - inadequacy.

 

I devoured their stories, and I saw

branching pathways.

Happiness to the left,

misery to the right,

and me,

growing roots in the ground.

So, I dug deep down,

sweat pouring from my brow,

dirt encrusting my feet.

And I gripped those roots tight

and pulled with all my might,

feeling my back creak

and crack under the strain.

And I started to move,

to feel

 

Free,

 

and I walked to the left,

to see what was right.

Dear Diary

 

Dear diary,

today I feel low. Not because

anything has happened,

but because nothing has...

Loneliness is a shadow that creeps in,

a puddle ever-expanding. Before you

know it, it is wrapped around your toes,

and starts dragging you down.

 

Like gravity then, it pulls you in.

Every footstep becomes

heavier.

Where before you'd bounce,

now you slouch

ever lower

to the

ground.

Until you're crawling

like an animal,

begging for scraps.

 

And I want to call a friend, but then

I don't have many of them. And to call

would make me a burden, so I just stare on

vacantly at the wall, whilst all around, my

sense of perspective starts to fall.

 

Dear diary, it's been a day

and still I'm slumping in the grey.

I just can't lift this gloopy mood,

it seeps over every surface,

like school days glue.

Everything I touch just turns to dust,

and I feel my mental state

has already started to rust.

And I'm flat, like a tyre punctured by glass.

And I want to call, but I have no attire

and I'm tired at best.

 

Dear diary, I feel great. I got a call,

must have been fate - just one call,

that's all it took. Inspired me

to open my eyes and look.

 

See, I'd been asleep,

same as I'd spent most of these days,

just spending my hours in between dreams.

And then a buzz,

a vibration from my phone,

a call - my eyes opened.

Alert. focused.

I left my home. And

whilst I may have been

awkward, and slightly low,

the laughter lifted me,

and slowly

that mood started to grow.

So now I'm buzzed. But stupidly tired.

I'll retire to bed, I'll need a lie-in.