The Brown Eyed Dreamer

'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' William Wordsworth


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The Last Goodbye of Winter

The world woke up to whirls of snow

Fluttering from skies and falling slow,

The streets were cloaked in silence, sweet, 

The only sound my plodding feet

Paving footprint paths in crisp, cold sheets 

Of crackling ice, cool snow and sleet.

And though it’s rather late in year 

And most pray for spring to appear, 

I felt delight to walk and see 

Winter’s final legacy. 

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Melancholia.

All too often I find myself
Tentatively treading the space
Between two sets of mind:
Imagination and reality.
Wandering between the two sides
Wondering about the one side
I truly belong to.
Am I eccentric or just downright crazy?
Am I melancholy or melodramatic?
Is my existence entirely broken
Or am I just another teenager
Jacked up on the idea that depression
Could make my life a little more interesting?

Maybe a part of me craves
Sighs that could fill up my heaving lungs like cigarette fumes,
Tears that could flow through my bloodstream like wine,
So that somewhere amongst the raging chaos
There’d be poetry, inked in pain; and
So that for once in this abysmal, echoing life
I’d have something to say.


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Mute

How is it that when I’m alone reels of pages appear before my eyes

Entire stories woven with the words I wanted to say but

Never found the bravery to let pass beyond my lips.

How is it that when I’m alone phrases flower on my tongue

But when I look into his eyes they falter, never flow

The silent sentences shrivel, their dried petals falling slow

I love him, but what will I do without the words to tell him so?


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Red Carpet Eyes

When he looks at me it’s like his eyes are a spotlight and I’m caught in the beam centre-stage. He looks at me not like I’m the backdrop to the scene; I’m not a faded set with peeling paint and flaking edges. I’m not a shabby stage curtain, tattered from where uncaring hands roughly tugged me to and fro. No- he looks at me like I am more.
When he stares I feel like the main event, Hollywood’s finest star. When he stares his eyes give me standing ovations, his lips shower me in rich red roses and a cacophony of cheers.
And even though he’s the only member of my audience, the only pair of eyes watching my show, I feel like the most cherished character there is. Because when he stares, he looks at me as though I’m something worth looking at.


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Found. (Part One)

Crowded places had always been a refuge for me- I loved the safety of numbers, of being just one dull, expressionless face in a black and white canvas painted with dull, expressionless faces. In supermarkets, cafés, airports and bustling streets I allowed myself to be lost in a wave of people, one ripple cascading among thousands of other ripples. In crowds I was always hidden, a tiny shuffling secret, safe- that is, until she found me.

I was in my local bookstore, a chain store that was always heavily populated with quiet whispers and wide eyes roving over the many-touched spines of newly published books, when I saw her first. Lazily eying a shelf of second-hand novels I had the sudden feeling of being watched, and so I turned. 
And there she was.
Her every feature was as starkly similar as the last time I saw her, as if she had been frozen in a picture frame until this very moment. But now the frame had shattered, the glass had exploded around the room- I could feel the crashing sound ricocheting in my head, could feel the blood on my hands from the jagged glassy edges. The girl had escaped from the still photograph, and my trouble was only just beginning. 


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Writer’s Block

I can see the scenarios in front of me
Like shots from a movie scene,
The anger, the laughter, the tears
All accompanied by only silence-
I can’t hear the words to tell the story,
And this tale is but a blank canvas
I, the artist, without paint.
Images swirl and fall together
In no order, a jumbled kaleidoscope
Of nonsensical stories,
A twisted mirage of bleak nothings.
I see the end, the final kiss,
The last few moments of a perfect scene-
But the main girl, she’s crying
And the boy, he has no words
This wasn’t the ending we all pictured…
If only I could find the words
To change it.


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The Storm

A storm is on its way.
I often wonder how I would react to hearing this; knowing that life is but an hourglass and that the last few grains of sand are about to fall? How would I feel knowing that the end is but a few heartbeats and a final breath away? I wonder would I be able to utter a final sentence- a shaken ‘goodbye’, a stuttered ‘I love you’, or maybe a soft and bitter ‘I’m sorry’? Would words burst out of my mouth in a tidal wave of shocked emotions, spilling a kaleidoscope of stumbling sentences across the empty rooms before me? Would I sit in wounded, wide-eyed silence, unable to even believe the words I am hearing? Or would I raise my head to the skies, open my arms wide to the heavens and smile, knowing that finally it would all be over? Maybe I’m ready to be washed away with the rain, have lightning race through my blood and thunder roar through my skull.
A storm is on its way, and I think I’m ready to face it.

(Inspired by the song ‘Time’ by Hans Zimmer.)