Scald

We're all crazy here.

She bled from her eyes
                  until she saw blood red skies.
Hold tight. Don’t (let) go.
Oh she -
            an exorcism of the physical kind.
With skin that wasn’t breathable,
                                         demons began to choke.
                      Hold tight, my dear
                      we’re all crazy here.

Say something.

Fatal

It was a red string
that tugged us together.
When I was lost
you were point B; base camp.
When you were crying for an echo
I could be a reflection.
Cool glass in my own two hands
fate incarnate.
But string is string
and life is sharp
the pain was twisting
and you ran away –
it’s too much strain
to put on a little, red string.
(And I think you know that).

Say it.

Rosie Was A Little Girl

Rosie was a little girl
who sang a wild tune;
and wore the bluest socks
whose favourite month was June.

Rosie was a little girl
who smiled up at the sun
who skipped everywhere she went
and thought life a synonym of fun.

Rosie was a little girl
trapped in an old fish tank
whose food came down on ropes
with an order to ‘say thanks’.

Rosie was a little girl
whose happiness was incomplete.
At her they chipped away
until her sides became all neat.

Rosie was a little girl
who remembered to always say please
who instead of looking in a mirror
would fall down upon her knees.

Rosie was a little girl
whose knees were strong as sin.
When raised in half-happiness
could let nobody in.

Rosie was a little girl
who had a lot of friends
who danced with her by day
and were there until the end.

Rosie was a little girl
with faith as strong as manners
who though their purpose was to fix
when they came armed with hammers.

Rosie was a little girl
who tried to make amends
and tried to hold on tight
to what she thought the Lord had sent.

Rosie was a little girl
who learned to speak in rhyme
with pockets full of hope and pain
she died a very many times.

Rosie was a little girl
who couldn’t lift her soul
who lived out her days half-sad
and hurried growing old.

Rosie was a little girl
who didn’t die from shouts
or hammers in their hands
but quietly, alone she bled out.

Rosie was a little girl
who lived a metaphor;
became a bomb of pain and hurt;
and died a tragedy, dreaming of more.

Road Trip Baby

I’d take on a road trip
to Dublin or Berlin
we’d have to take a ferry –
but the sights we could take in!

I’d give you an adventure
we would dip our toes
in the bluest, swimming seas;
and forget about our woes.

I’d take a photo of you –
every city, every day
to remind you of your beauty
each time you go away.

I’d take you on a road trip
darling, we could go so far.
I’d save you from monotony
but I’m afraid you’d crash the car.