Sometimes I feel like a ghost
when I wander around my house.
I think the walls are too thin
and the eyes that stare from photographs,
too false,
like the days we lived then
were fairytales etched on a shoreline,
then folded away into the sand
where only the clouds that blur
with the horizon’s millimetre of clarity
can get a close enough look
to see the fractures,
to see the age on the Tru-prints.
Rings on the coffee-table,
game-shows on telly, buzzing through the ceiling,
plates stacked in the sink, and the constant
banging
of the front door
remind me that people still live
here. Sometimes
I make some noise
when nobody’s home.
I sing out-loud, out-of-tune,
and I am louder than I remember.
I’m a ghost in my house,
seeing the misconnections where loops
carried through a chapter,
skipping lines.
I sometimes watch the rain,
and sometimes I repeat days, over and over
and over
again.
On a Tuesday I change the photographs
to dustier versions of memories
and allow the sunlight to bleach the colours,
so that like me,
we all become ghosts,
background noise that nobody hears.
/yukIsuck
Monday, 14 February 2011
Saturday, 12 February 2011
What happens when I'm out of muse . . .
So my pre-NaPo is going rather badly. I have excuses, but I won't bore you with them. I currently have a total of five poems out of the twelve I'm supposed to have . . . w00t!
However . . . Number Four needs some explaining, I think, lest you (all five of you) shoot me for my disgusting abuse of the English language.
Recently I've rediscovered children's verse. So, stupidly thinking they were easy to do and that all I'd need is a rhyming dictionary (which I totally blame for my rhyming-fail), I set about writing my own. It was fun until the end of the first stanza.
The idea of bears in cupboards is from a novella I'm working on alongside my novel, about a little boy called Alfred and his rather imaginative outlook on the world. It's a scene I've been thinking of for a long time, but actually got around to writing on Monday night/Tuesday lunchtime.
I'm happy with the prose, but as I was out of other ideas, I recycled the idea, added some fairies and ice-cream, and came out with this heap-of-junk poem. *sigh*
Anyway, I apologise in advance for the awful rhyming and all-round yukkiness:
#4) The Bears in the Cupboards
When I was a child, the carpet was an ocean,
deeper than the sky flipped up-side-down,
there were grizzly bears in all of the cupboards,
watching me with eyes in their hundreds,
and all the fairies who lived in the garden
would sing in the rain, and call me to their fairy-ring.
But I stood in the window, safe behind the glass,
drawing myself as I breathed close, a misted mask.
And I told them all about the great grizzly bears
who hid behind the books and dust and other such things
my father used to hide away with his old inks.
They told me, “Child, see the pouring rain
and tell me what bears love again?”
But I thought and thought, and I couldn’t think,
so I ate my tea,
counted my A-B-Cs,
said thank-you to mummy,
and then played soldiers in the nursery.
Then just before morning, while the birds still slept
and the milkman only halfway up the street,
it came to me – the solution – and up I leapt!
It’s deadly top- secret, you see,
that bears go mad for ice-cream!
Love it, they do – gobsmackingly adore it!
So with Jennie’s ice-cream, around the house I dashed,
the big ones and the small ones, each loping and lumbering
— they swum the oceans and shook out the loose threads,
then ran out into the garden and through all the flower beds,
all after me and the vanilla ice-cream.
“Come quickly!” called the fairies, glinting in the trees
as I dropped the pot of Jennie’s ice-cream in the fairies’ bright ring.
One-by-one the bears, they came, and snuffled and squeezed,
just to get a tiny lick of that delicious ice-cream.
Then the fairies worked their magic in twos and threes,
filling the air with frost and brown autumn leaves.
The bears growled and roared — a great sound it was!
then disappeared in a flurry of smoke and sparkling dust!
So now you know, when you spy those bears, hiding away
in the backs of cupboards, wardrobes or stairs, you’ll trust
that with a little ice-cream, and a fairy ring –
that beating bears is simply child’s play.
However . . . Number Four needs some explaining, I think, lest you (all five of you) shoot me for my disgusting abuse of the English language.
Recently I've rediscovered children's verse. So, stupidly thinking they were easy to do and that all I'd need is a rhyming dictionary (which I totally blame for my rhyming-fail), I set about writing my own. It was fun until the end of the first stanza.
The idea of bears in cupboards is from a novella I'm working on alongside my novel, about a little boy called Alfred and his rather imaginative outlook on the world. It's a scene I've been thinking of for a long time, but actually got around to writing on Monday night/Tuesday lunchtime.
I'm happy with the prose, but as I was out of other ideas, I recycled the idea, added some fairies and ice-cream, and came out with this heap-of-junk poem. *sigh*
Anyway, I apologise in advance for the awful rhyming and all-round yukkiness:
#4) The Bears in the Cupboards
When I was a child, the carpet was an ocean,
deeper than the sky flipped up-side-down,
there were grizzly bears in all of the cupboards,
watching me with eyes in their hundreds,
and all the fairies who lived in the garden
would sing in the rain, and call me to their fairy-ring.
But I stood in the window, safe behind the glass,
drawing myself as I breathed close, a misted mask.
And I told them all about the great grizzly bears
who hid behind the books and dust and other such things
my father used to hide away with his old inks.
They told me, “Child, see the pouring rain
and tell me what bears love again?”
But I thought and thought, and I couldn’t think,
so I ate my tea,
counted my A-B-Cs,
said thank-you to mummy,
and then played soldiers in the nursery.
Then just before morning, while the birds still slept
and the milkman only halfway up the street,
it came to me – the solution – and up I leapt!
It’s deadly top- secret, you see,
that bears go mad for ice-cream!
Love it, they do – gobsmackingly adore it!
So with Jennie’s ice-cream, around the house I dashed,
the big ones and the small ones, each loping and lumbering
— they swum the oceans and shook out the loose threads,
then ran out into the garden and through all the flower beds,
all after me and the vanilla ice-cream.
“Come quickly!” called the fairies, glinting in the trees
as I dropped the pot of Jennie’s ice-cream in the fairies’ bright ring.
One-by-one the bears, they came, and snuffled and squeezed,
just to get a tiny lick of that delicious ice-cream.
Then the fairies worked their magic in twos and threes,
filling the air with frost and brown autumn leaves.
The bears growled and roared — a great sound it was!
then disappeared in a flurry of smoke and sparkling dust!
So now you know, when you spy those bears, hiding away
in the backs of cupboards, wardrobes or stairs, you’ll trust
that with a little ice-cream, and a fairy ring –
that beating bears is simply child’s play.
Saturday, 5 February 2011
#3) Fabian Kiss
His handprint across your face
blushed red, as the sunset lay murdered
on the horizon, its blood burning in a fireplace
laid by Orion in the skies. I often wondered
what made me think of pears and French grapes,
and why I didn’t choose Cristal over that rosé
wine, dusted with gold filigree shapes:
love-hearts that came free with your bouquet.
But on your breath they were ictarine sparks
pleating the savannah’s heat before my eyes,
as we leant in close like young monarchs
tired of unwoven sighs and bad wordplay.
Do you remember we watched hot air
balloons pedalling the sky over a watercolour savannah?
Caught in orbit, they seemed to remain there,
like fathers of the absent rain, watching our samba.
And later, when we said goodbye on the veranda,
you pretended our kiss was a childish dare
and walked away, avoiding the fanfare.
/ attempt at rhyming >.<
blushed red, as the sunset lay murdered
on the horizon, its blood burning in a fireplace
laid by Orion in the skies. I often wondered
what made me think of pears and French grapes,
and why I didn’t choose Cristal over that rosé
wine, dusted with gold filigree shapes:
love-hearts that came free with your bouquet.
But on your breath they were ictarine sparks
pleating the savannah’s heat before my eyes,
as we leant in close like young monarchs
tired of unwoven sighs and bad wordplay.
Do you remember we watched hot air
balloons pedalling the sky over a watercolour savannah?
Caught in orbit, they seemed to remain there,
like fathers of the absent rain, watching our samba.
And later, when we said goodbye on the veranda,
you pretended our kiss was a childish dare
and walked away, avoiding the fanfare.
/ attempt at rhyming >.<
Thursday, 3 February 2011
#2) Imbolc
Winter ends quietly.
Reflections of fairy lights gleam
on the frosted buds, the icicles beading towards
earth,
and I fish in the glass,
watching it ripple
into the edges of the sky you can only see
in dark windows.
I ask my reflection for a name
and it repeats my words without voice
like the frost froze familiarity
or perhaps
I was always an outsider
and the heavens always knew me.
I tell Cailleach it’s okay
to cry for the darkness,
and that though the drips echo in the forests,
nobody hears them.
I wait for Midas
to touch the boughs around me,
and for ghosts to craft ferns on windows,
and then I’ll hold my hands out
to catch the first snow.
Reflections of fairy lights gleam
on the frosted buds, the icicles beading towards
earth,
and I fish in the glass,
watching it ripple
into the edges of the sky you can only see
in dark windows.
I ask my reflection for a name
and it repeats my words without voice
like the frost froze familiarity
or perhaps
I was always an outsider
and the heavens always knew me.
I tell Cailleach it’s okay
to cry for the darkness,
and that though the drips echo in the forests,
nobody hears them.
I wait for Midas
to touch the boughs around me,
and for ghosts to craft ferns on windows,
and then I’ll hold my hands out
to catch the first snow.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
#1) Little Neon Angel
Mist drenches the rooftops, painting a city
backdrop in smears of purple watercolour,
and it hangs the streets with air-force saris
too long to be part of the night. Sequins
twinkle like rain-blurred traffic lights
caught on the underbellies of swelling clouds;
they wait for release, for God’s thumb
to squeeze them out like wasted dishcloths,
and beneath it all, silence
waits in the alleys,
avoiding echoes.
She sees the city as more than harsh angles,
ups and downs, and windows, finger-marked to blindness,
(these nails are shaper than twenty-twenty)
and reflecting back eyes and stars. She sees
the drips sliding down the curbs and wonders
about gravity
and how the beaded rain magnifies
the city lights.
A ring of orange flickers
to the edges of a puddle, and she breaks the rim,
taking the cracked halo up in one hand.
In a backstreet bedsit a mother waits
for her angel to come home
from the neon darkness,
and a siren pricks the walls in red, bleeding
in parallel lines through the blinds.
Somewhere on the inter-city highway, her chalk lines fade
and turn into blurs of people and places –
the ones she was always too young to see
– and she tries to peel away the answers
from the histories the ground buries like bones
(but dust floats, too) as the sun rises,
allowing the city to find its colours again
while a mother’s hands fold a sequined scarf.
/wordvomityukkiness
backdrop in smears of purple watercolour,
and it hangs the streets with air-force saris
too long to be part of the night. Sequins
twinkle like rain-blurred traffic lights
caught on the underbellies of swelling clouds;
they wait for release, for God’s thumb
to squeeze them out like wasted dishcloths,
and beneath it all, silence
waits in the alleys,
avoiding echoes.
She sees the city as more than harsh angles,
ups and downs, and windows, finger-marked to blindness,
(these nails are shaper than twenty-twenty)
and reflecting back eyes and stars. She sees
the drips sliding down the curbs and wonders
about gravity
and how the beaded rain magnifies
the city lights.
A ring of orange flickers
to the edges of a puddle, and she breaks the rim,
taking the cracked halo up in one hand.
In a backstreet bedsit a mother waits
for her angel to come home
from the neon darkness,
and a siren pricks the walls in red, bleeding
in parallel lines through the blinds.
Somewhere on the inter-city highway, her chalk lines fade
and turn into blurs of people and places –
the ones she was always too young to see
– and she tries to peel away the answers
from the histories the ground buries like bones
(but dust floats, too) as the sun rises,
allowing the city to find its colours again
while a mother’s hands fold a sequined scarf.
/wordvomityukkiness
Monday, 31 January 2011
Enter February
So, one day left of January. Or . . . less than a day, I should say.
Normally this would mean little to me, but because I'm crazy and seem to be asking for some kind of early life-crisis or mental breakdown, I've chosen to do NaPoWriMo (the poetry version of NaNoWriMo, where you have to write a poem every day for a month instead of the usual 50,000 words of prose in a month), while I have coursework deadlines up the ying-yang, a family member in hospital on the other side of the country, and various other time-consuming chaoticnesses going off like fireworks all around me . . .
This won't be an official NaPo thing, though -- it's more of a pact between a friend (whose blog is: HERE ) and I, as we both feel we've kind of run out of steam with poetry and need something to help us get back into it. Devasaurus would also like to win the Foyle Young Poets Award this year which would be epic, as we were both commended last year, and for her to win this year would be awesome, especially considering the amount of work she's going to. And I'm very happy to be like motivational support for her, or whatever the term is *readies poking stick*. Normally it's held in April (we'll probably be doing one then as well, but were eager beavers, and this is a slightly shorter month than normal, so . . . we'll call it like a practice round, in preparation for April. And as a warning: they'll all be various shades of awful, unedited drivel.
I'm looking forward to it, I must say. I think some of my more imaginative poetry came out of last years' (April) NaPo and the weeks afterwards. It was the first NaPo I'd ever done, as before that point I hadn't really been into poetry and only dabbled when the feeling struck and I didn't feel like writing something long. It started off a kind of poetry-revival on a forum where Devasaurus and I are both members and got lots of people who hadn't tried poetry before, really into it, so it'd be awesome for something like that to happen again. It'd also be good bonus to get out our lovely threadbox filled with some fresh work and revival-ness. I'm not expecting any good work to come out of it as I suck, but I do think I'll enjoy it nonetheless.
Eh, this post is rubbish, so I'm going to wind it up quickly. I ramble too much and yikes . . . run-on sentences and comma splices galore! Someone save me! D:
Anyhoo, as I've noticed the stupid 'page' thingies on here only allow you one 'post' in them and don't like update or show notifications like regular with posts, I'm going to add a thing on the end of a regular post every time I update in Snippets or Artynesses, because I'd rather have art and longer prose separate from the bloggy bit so I can easily find and edit/delete them if needs be. Currently there are two updates under Artynesses, jus' so you know. :3
So yeah, over and out!
Saturday, 22 January 2011
Lego, Old Toys, and Serious Nostalgia
Today (actually, the day before yesterday now), I spent two hours moving Happyland figures over my desk and building Lego walls around them for my stop-motion thingummywhatsit that's going to be in the music video I'm making for my Media Studies coursework. It was more fun than I thought it would be as my teacher and some people who’d done it before said it was a chore. So I surprised myself at how my inner child found moving yukky chemical-smelling plastic toys half a centimetre after every picture, very thrilling indeed.
Those are the colours of happiness, nostalgia, and that freaky smell of new plastic.
Nobody would lend me any Lego though, and weirdly, my family never actually ever had any 'proper' lego, just the huge Duplo stuff. So I had to buy some proper Lego of my own (who knew it was so expensive?) and make up a story about my actually-existing-but-not-yet-anywhere-near-four-year-old-brother's fourth birthday coming up next month for the nice checkout guy who commented on my age and my obvious wide-eyed childish excitement (I'm guessing I was smiling too much?) at finding myself in a toyshop . . .
[caption id="attachment_153" align="aligncenter" width="535" caption=""My Scorpion will kill you even though you're already dead! Muahahahaha!!""]
[/caption]
Anyway, the awesome thing is, I actually have lots to talk about for once! Rediscovering Lego has made me remember all my favourite old toys from when I was a kid. I still have a few, and some I think must be in the loft somewhere, but I'm very saddened now that I sold so many. Ebay's helping me find old favourites I've lost though. My bank account doesn't like toys, though, the boring old fart.
So this is going to be my List of Most Awesome Toys from my Childhood.
First up is my Polly Pockets:
I got the wedding set (big purple heart) for my fourth birthday, I remember opening it and everything. It's always been one of my favourite toys, and though I don't have as many of the pieces as I used to (I was always really careful about bits, but we moved house a lot), it still looks new and plays the sounds and everything. xD The other one was one my dad bought for me when I was about eleven from a toy fair – I was a bit too old to play with it, so it’s in much better condition and the bits aren’t so . . . obviously nineties, if you know what I mean.
Second is the Teeny Weenie Families Grand Hotel:
Apparently this series of toys are quite rare now, and I'm gutted to say I used to have many more. There was a teapot cafe (I still have the characters and some of bits for it though, so it might be in the loft), a sewing machine tailors shop, a little tiny flower shop, and all sorts. They were like Polly Pockets but so much more awesome and cuter. The furniture and accessories, though . . . geez, some of them were so tiny it's hard to believe they could be made by machines and that the dreaded HealthAndSafetyDemons actually allowed them to be made for four year olds. Anyway, it's an adorable set, and I hope my (future, maybe) daughter might like them as much as I did. I’m currently stalking eBay for the other sets. :3
Third is the Pound Puppy Diner:
I had a huge Pound Puppy addiction when I was a kid. I can still hear the TV adverts in my head, word for word. I pined for the Pound Puppy Play Van for a long, long time, and was absolutely thrilled when I got it for Christmas when I was five/six. If I still had the Play Van, it would have the No.1 spot, purely because it's so awesome. It had a little Pound car and everything. However, I sold it to one of my brother’s friend’s little sister, who I reallyreallyreally hope looked after it.
The only Pound Puppy toy I still have is a miniature diner set (no original bits, though). The bits in the picture come from a later version of the Pound Puppies toys, when the dogs and cats stopped being steamrolled flat and gained normal animal shapes. The reason I kept these ones was because they were my favourites and it was these guys that I wrote my first 'proper' story about, when I was six. I don't have the story anymore, sadly, but can still remember it well as it was a game I used to play over and over again. I can still remember all the characters' names: (in order, left to right) Charlie, Maddy, Gregory, Bright-Eyes, Angel and Shiloh. (I was apparently much better at thinking of names when I was younger, too . . .)
Also, the last one, because I can’t find all of my Micro-Machines, here’s a picture of my awesomely pretty marbles. Don’t they just make you feel like a seven year old again?
. . . if you’re thinking, ‘No, they make me think you’re a seriously weird eighteen-year-old,’ then you need to go spend some time with your inner child . . . now.
Anyhoo. So yeah, if anyone ever reads this, and actually cares about my rants or whatever, then I’d really love it if you commented and told me what your favourite childhood toys were. Nostalgia is good to share, don’t you think?
See this grin??
Those are the colours of happiness, nostalgia, and that freaky smell of new plastic.
Nobody would lend me any Lego though, and weirdly, my family never actually ever had any 'proper' lego, just the huge Duplo stuff. So I had to buy some proper Lego of my own (who knew it was so expensive?) and make up a story about my actually-existing-but-not-yet-anywhere-near-four-year-old-brother's fourth birthday coming up next month for the nice checkout guy who commented on my age and my obvious wide-eyed childish excitement (I'm guessing I was smiling too much?) at finding myself in a toyshop . . .
Anyway, yes. Lego is awesome, and I'm totally going to build houses and ducks and have mummy invasions (two mummies holding scorpions are the only people I have) to relieve college/life stress.
[caption id="attachment_153" align="aligncenter" width="535" caption=""My Scorpion will kill you even though you're already dead! Muahahahaha!!""]
[/caption]*smiles happily*
Anyway, the awesome thing is, I actually have lots to talk about for once! Rediscovering Lego has made me remember all my favourite old toys from when I was a kid. I still have a few, and some I think must be in the loft somewhere, but I'm very saddened now that I sold so many. Ebay's helping me find old favourites I've lost though. My bank account doesn't like toys, though, the boring old fart.
So this is going to be my List of Most Awesome Toys from my Childhood.
First up is my Polly Pockets:
I got the wedding set (big purple heart) for my fourth birthday, I remember opening it and everything. It's always been one of my favourite toys, and though I don't have as many of the pieces as I used to (I was always really careful about bits, but we moved house a lot), it still looks new and plays the sounds and everything. xD The other one was one my dad bought for me when I was about eleven from a toy fair – I was a bit too old to play with it, so it’s in much better condition and the bits aren’t so . . . obviously nineties, if you know what I mean.
Second is the Teeny Weenie Families Grand Hotel:
Apparently this series of toys are quite rare now, and I'm gutted to say I used to have many more. There was a teapot cafe (I still have the characters and some of bits for it though, so it might be in the loft), a sewing machine tailors shop, a little tiny flower shop, and all sorts. They were like Polly Pockets but so much more awesome and cuter. The furniture and accessories, though . . . geez, some of them were so tiny it's hard to believe they could be made by machines and that the dreaded HealthAndSafetyDemons actually allowed them to be made for four year olds. Anyway, it's an adorable set, and I hope my (future, maybe) daughter might like them as much as I did. I’m currently stalking eBay for the other sets. :3
Third is the Pound Puppy Diner:
I had a huge Pound Puppy addiction when I was a kid. I can still hear the TV adverts in my head, word for word. I pined for the Pound Puppy Play Van for a long, long time, and was absolutely thrilled when I got it for Christmas when I was five/six. If I still had the Play Van, it would have the No.1 spot, purely because it's so awesome. It had a little Pound car and everything. However, I sold it to one of my brother’s friend’s little sister, who I reallyreallyreally hope looked after it.
The only Pound Puppy toy I still have is a miniature diner set (no original bits, though). The bits in the picture come from a later version of the Pound Puppies toys, when the dogs and cats stopped being steamrolled flat and gained normal animal shapes. The reason I kept these ones was because they were my favourites and it was these guys that I wrote my first 'proper' story about, when I was six. I don't have the story anymore, sadly, but can still remember it well as it was a game I used to play over and over again. I can still remember all the characters' names: (in order, left to right) Charlie, Maddy, Gregory, Bright-Eyes, Angel and Shiloh. (I was apparently much better at thinking of names when I was younger, too . . .)
Also, the last one, because I can’t find all of my Micro-Machines, here’s a picture of my awesomely pretty marbles. Don’t they just make you feel like a seven year old again?
. . . if you’re thinking, ‘No, they make me think you’re a seriously weird eighteen-year-old,’ then you need to go spend some time with your inner child . . . now.
Anyhoo. So yeah, if anyone ever reads this, and actually cares about my rants or whatever, then I’d really love it if you commented and told me what your favourite childhood toys were. Nostalgia is good to share, don’t you think?
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Dragonflies
She made paper birds on the porch
and once she’d given them eyes to see,
she shut them away in soap boxes
and stacked them beneath the steps
like old toys growing dusty in the attic.
Sometimes she’d use tissue instead,
and sometimes those birds tore their wings
and managed to fly up and away, taken
by wind and clouds with no love for paper,
or they’d catch the horizon and swoop.
On sunny days, the sand would shine
and she’d make parchment horses
to gallop the distance home again, scattering
paper crumbs between the seashells
and breaking their legs in the fall.
Sandals left out in the rain fall apart
as those birds watch the dune grasses grow
longer through their breathing holes.
They witness the dragonflies dying
when it rains, sinking with origami flowers.
It’s the paper-cut that makes her stop
– the slice of blood that makes her consider
Science at work – and wonder if she is God
to the boxed birds, and to the dragonflies
she burns, wing-tips first.
and once she’d given them eyes to see,
she shut them away in soap boxes
and stacked them beneath the steps
like old toys growing dusty in the attic.
Sometimes she’d use tissue instead,
and sometimes those birds tore their wings
and managed to fly up and away, taken
by wind and clouds with no love for paper,
or they’d catch the horizon and swoop.
On sunny days, the sand would shine
and she’d make parchment horses
to gallop the distance home again, scattering
paper crumbs between the seashells
and breaking their legs in the fall.
Sandals left out in the rain fall apart
as those birds watch the dune grasses grow
longer through their breathing holes.
They witness the dragonflies dying
when it rains, sinking with origami flowers.
It’s the paper-cut that makes her stop
– the slice of blood that makes her consider
Science at work – and wonder if she is God
to the boxed birds, and to the dragonflies
she burns, wing-tips first.
Sunday, 16 January 2011
Rose Heads
Bring me the rose heads
from last summer and let me feel the fibres
of their decay beneath my fingers;
brown confetti floats down and sits
on the surface of a puddle.
My thumb presses a thorn, skeleton
to skeleton, and here’s to flat champagne
and the petals you picked and scattered
like ashes in the flowerbeds — you still think
they follow the sun?
I liked the red roses best; an old cliché.
They grow like nettles between rocks, now,
and their heads float, decapitated as buds,
face-down
in the pond.
Where I left you
wanting an answer I couldn’t find
when it mattered, there grows
a daisy, breaking all the rules,
and I think I’ll let it grow.
/awfulpieceofdrivelyesIknow
from last summer and let me feel the fibres
of their decay beneath my fingers;
brown confetti floats down and sits
on the surface of a puddle.
My thumb presses a thorn, skeleton
to skeleton, and here’s to flat champagne
and the petals you picked and scattered
like ashes in the flowerbeds — you still think
they follow the sun?
I liked the red roses best; an old cliché.
They grow like nettles between rocks, now,
and their heads float, decapitated as buds,
face-down
in the pond.
Where I left you
wanting an answer I couldn’t find
when it mattered, there grows
a daisy, breaking all the rules,
and I think I’ll let it grow.
/awfulpieceofdrivelyesIknow
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