Un-named as of yet.

This is newer, and it doesn't have a name yet. I'm just waiting for a name to find it's way out. I'm not quite sure what I think about it, so help me out. I definitely need opinions on this one.

I have a box.

It sits inside my chest,

somewhere to the left

of my strongest lung.

Inside the box

a lot of things nest.

(buried alive, still kicking)

They’re always making noise.

(beating, beating!)

I try to let them out

when I find the strength

or trust

but they don’t know what to say.

(just noise noise, The Fear!)

It seems that all these little things

vanish in the daytime sun.

But still, they talk to me

(laugh, insane)

at night.

They say an awful lot.

(laugh, insane)

But I’m not sure how to share.

(no-one ever taught us)

They say an awful lot.

(LAUGH, INSANE)

But I’m not sure how to share.

(no one ever will)

If I could

I’d find the words

to tell you what’s inside

(no-one sees inside)

I’m sure those words are simple,

but they just seem to vanish

every time they’re born.

Sacred Heart.

This has been around for a while. I heard a story about how the Sacre Coeur cathedral had its windows removed during the war, so that they didn't get broken. But then, the cathedral was left open and vulnerable. The story got me thinking, and this poem happened. It's probably the closest thing to a love poem that I'm capable of writing.

Sacred Heart.

Where windows prove their hard remove,

Stained by ages glass

And lead must fall away

And open up.

It is, they say, the only way

To save them from the siege.

Else, victims of the raging war

Outside

They shatter.

Beauty gone.

Bright shields lost forever.

But-

Through vacant frames

Famed lights of old Montmartre

Steal in,

And air. Those lights

Eternal – patient, kind-

Before looked in

But did not force

Their entrance. Now,

Though, pure,

Unmediated,

Granted this first time.

But-

Here, does life belong?

Stone Heart has long been stone

That light and dust of life may mar,

Where scars of war the light may show.

Illumination, craved and feared,

Here never sought but found.

Though light, once light,

Will hold off dark.

No choice in that.

My love,

Then let light be.

You, Your Demons and I

Again, this is young and rough.

You, Your Demons and I

You, your demons and I,

trapped between these godforsaken walls,

somewhere west of Hell.

You scream at me and I scream at paper.

You are weak.

And you throw your weakness all at me.

But I will remain silent

To you. You do not (and would not) understand.

Your only words are those that kill.

Hope, Love and Family.

A Joke.

Pity.

This is only about an hour old, it's young, fragile and still very rough. But take a look.

Pity

I see you,

sinking like a stone.

Stone of mercy,

the mercy of pain,

and a heart of all.

Can’t you see me,

seeing you?

You should know that I’m here.

I could be the river.

Carry you, carry you.

Take you South and carry you.

And your pain is mine,

So close your eyes.

Don’t look.

Not to see

will help you believe.

Find your eyes in blindness,

Child.

Could I convince you

to believe in you?

This & That.

Not entirely happy with the very end of this.

This

This is the home of the spectres.

This is where they wander the streets, in

this darkness that’s yours; always always under

this peculiar shade of grey, never black. The greyest darkness. And

this is where they sleep. Always sleeping. Take a good look and recoil.

This chance will never come again, all because

this world too separate. Too far.

This world is theirs, too.

That

That other city that’s filled by you,

that never sees that grey or pain, is such

that it might keep itself to itself and so keep itself

that perfect shade of glass and marble. Rich in absence and something

that compels a smile at all times new, clean, shiny and

that specific colour. That green specific colour.

That’s your lot’s lot, really. That’s all

that’s there. Now leave.

The Death of the Lost Boys.

The Death of the Lost Boys

I know that I have lost something, but what?

Say, could it be that things long since discarded

could count as loss when taken from our lot?

Expected loss will find a heart unguarded.

Of gentle men that I so loved in childhood,

but somewhere in the flood of years were lost,

is born a pang that’s hardly understood.

I mean to say that something bereft

is strange to cause such sadness when it leaves.

I forfeited my chance to show you love;

my chance to remedy this my heart grieves.

But loss of you has left me this resolve:

That I will hold your names now, close and sore,

and hold the living closer all the more.