To us dreamers

We’re stuck in the moments
between today and yesterday,
like moths we are
drawn to the ultraviolet lights
that will burn our wings
stopping us from flying away;
letting us be free,
we’re dying in a false dream
filled with hope.

We sit in our surreal sadness
with diamonds for tears
falling so often
they’ve become worthless.
Is this happiness?
Children imitating our idols
lost at sea
praying they’ll come home soon
and write us lullabies.

What are we even for anymore?
To cry and muse on behalf of
The perfect past.
I promise you darling
we’re all very lovely
writing soliloquies to die for,
of our disastrously dangerous desires
that want to scar us
marking our unclean bodies forevermore.

We’re the scared dreamers,
little kids who grew up jaggedly
like flowers raised by an eclipse
that lasted a thousand years.
We can write words that make men cry
but our lives will fall apart,
the romantic symphonies
hiding our broken hearts
will burn us dead.

‘It is dangerous to be right in matters which the established authorities are wrong’

I’m a Runner,
it spreads like poison through
my heretic French blood.

When I run, I hide.
Then I stay hidden.

With the trees collapsing around me,
closing fully in
turning into a cage.

I don’t know yet,
maybe I never will
if I’m scared or safe.

I need to break free
and run
and run
and run
and run
and run
and run
and run.

The Lost Girl

The lost girl is free to run around the world,
surrounded by forgotten tears and broken dreams;
with her glitter stained bruises
and nails painted with cigarette smoke,
she walks alone, a damaged little girl
everybody knows she’s ruined to her core.

The lost girl can do what she pleases,
takes what’s given to her, looking out for love
in pools of glass shards;
dancing to the beat of a broken heart,
her eyes too dazed to make her way back home.

The lost girl is getting younger each year.
Regressing into a little child.
Needing a saviour or a saint
to get her out of deathly dreams.

The lost girl is in a broken-down car.
Driving to her utopia;

she’s about to crash.


The scale is broken;
sand is on the wrong side
the bad side.

Its getting too strong,
pushing all else down to the floor
kicking it in their face.

The men up there
in their powerful blue sky.
What’s inside them?
Do we want to know?

They sit in their towers
masks on their face.
But the glue is starting to sink
and burn to their skin.

Don’t they know that all will fall
If a good man believes his own bravado?

Its coming soon.