I know she’s where I was.
And I know she’s who I am.
She’s me but slightly altered, and that makes me feel numb.
But you're the one who I resent, and you're the one who changed.
Even if the me that was with you then is different but the same.
No doubt she’s in the clothes I wore,
and lying where I lay.
And hearing words you said to me,
nearly every single day.
And I hate you for hating me and I can’t put into words,
how much you've changed who I am and how much this all hurts.
Still most of me just doesn't care, and wishes you were gone.
Because when I see these images, it just seems strange and wrong.
I used to be the one with you though I don't want that now,
I don't want to talk, or see your face, but I have no choice.
I'm scared to let my guards down because of what you did.
I am scared to be hurt, scared to lay myself bare and it’s all because of you.
I can’t forgive you and I won’t, for this fear runs through and through.

Out of Sight, Out of Mind.

A kiss on the forehead, and unwanted attention.
The result of the disposal of attention desired.
More freedom, more choice, more reason and logic.
More time to be myself and to make the most of everything.
But now freedom feels vast, hollow and limitless,
and the opportunities for choices come by less often.
Reason and logic still stand dominant, but this persistent emptiness follows, and here it remains.
Once again, I feel small.
Insignificant, and here for the taking.
No stands for nothing and I am not heard.
Once again, I feel worthless.
But who am I to complain of this, I sold my valuables away for this..
Who am I to complain?

The Last Kiss

She sits and stares into the mirror.
As she blinks a new wrinkle falls round her eyes.
Behind her in the bed lays her other incomplete half.
Him unaware of her pain, a tear falls down her cheek.
Stuck in a rut and her thoughts elsewhere.
Distraction is all the rage these days, and she will seek it where she can.
How long can she put off the touch, and the emotion?
What do you say when whats desired by all is not wanted by you?
Juggling has never been a talent of hers and she's dropping the balls.
Which ones to keep in air are no longer her choice.
How long can she sit here;
Watching time fly past.
How long can she sit there?

My Confusion, The Universe and Blood.

Laying here with my hand on my neck, I can feel the slow and steady, constant flow of my blood.
It reminds me I'm alive. It reminds me that I'm not just human on the surface.
I am bone, sinew, tendon, flesh and cells.
Each pump of blood keeps me working like a machine.
When we are the most complex and complicated machine known to man, known to this world, how can we merely call ourselves human?
Human versus Machine, such a difference, yet so the same.

Are all feelings individual and unique? Other machines have felt as much as we, they relate. Our networks interlink.
How can we say we are human when a seemingly spontaneous choice of path has been previously walked? Has been programmed into us, into others.
How is it that I have felt like this before? Will I feel like this again?
Am I wrong? And am I different? Or will we all feel this way?

Why is it that when I feel the blood pulsing through my veins, my heart and my body that I feel less human, and more like a machine?
Why is it that the world as I feel it vanishes beneath me leaving me with only the beat of my heart. I feel inconsequential, small and lost, unnoticed. Yet at the same time I feel that all of this is out of my hands, and that none of it is within my control.
None of this is my fault.

Alongside DNA feelings and choices and the paths we take are what make us individual, yet others before me have made the same choices, what distinguishes me from them?
With every beat of my young and unsure heart my choices and decisions seem not to be my own but in the hands of someone else; this comforts me.

Does this bring me on to a 'God', a 'Creator'? Have our lives and has this world been mapped out like software on a computer? Are we all just walking hardware?
Perhaps I am pondering the meaning of life, or how we came into existence.
Or perhaps I am finally realising there is so much more to this world than I thought.
I am realising that the complexity behind a simple choice or decision, and the million and one combinations of emotions and feelings are just as profound and as intricate as our genetic make up.

On the surface I see simply skin, but underneath I feel it all move; I feel my body working I feel the cells grow and expand, pulse, twitch, circulate and respire.
I feel it all happening, and I know I'm not controlling it.
Existence is out of my hands.
How can all this be happening within me and yet I am unable to make a conscious decision to simply switch off?
How can this machine of life, with no power switch, be compared to any of the greatest machines and inventions of all time?

Yet what is confusion? A virus, some rust in the machinery?
How can not knowing what to do bring all this thought?
I guess I want to know who is responsible. For me, for everyone, for being human.
If I made a decision that hurt someone, is it really my fault?
Who is in control? The choice or the human?
How can the worlds greatest machine manage to keep going through it all, but fail to find clarity at any given point?
How can the worlds greatest machine fail to make a simple choice?

Is it the perfections that make us human, or is it the imperfections?
Humans all make choices, but some find it harder than other, is this humanity?
Perhaps it's not the ability to make a choice that defines us as beings or as a race, but the inability to make a choice.
The confusion, the haziness, the unbalanced scales.

After unintentionally pondering the big questions to no avail, the answer to my smaller queries is seemingly more lost than before.
Confusion has led to more confusion, and as I feel my heart beat, and marvel at my mechanics,
I have no answer.
I have no point.
And at this moment in time,
I ponder it all.

Times Change

Its amazing how things literally can change overnight..
And I want to write and write, but the words don't even come anymore.
Everythings turned upside down and I am finding it so hard to adjust and find out where I actually want to be..

So what do you do, when one half of you is completely and utterly idyllically happy, and the other wants to run for the hills?
I want to hide and shine at the same time and I want things to be able to happen when I want them to, I don't want to wait.

What do you do when you cant let go?
And when something makes you feel sick to your stomach every time you see it, or them, or her, by some obscene power it has a hold over you, an unbreakable heavy hold?

What do you do when you want to work for something, so much, but you're too lazy?
Or, you try so hard, but you always cave in?
How is that dedication.
How is that WANTING something.

What do you do when you're stuck inside a person, a shell, that on the outside makes you want to cry, but whatever's on the inside is happy enough to not do anything.

I think with you, I can he happy and perfect, but when you're gone I'm left with the outside shell.
It's not a question of 'How can I do this without you?'


But, 'How can I do this with you?'

Should I say?

That you still make me cry.
And I ...

I think I shouldn't say.

THE END.

Une orange sur la table
Ta robe sur le tapis
Et toi dans mon lit
Doux présent du présent
Fraîcheur de la nuit
Chaleur de ma vie.

An orange on the table
Your dress on the rug
And you in my bed
Sweet gift of now
Crisp cool of night
Passion fire of my life

3/3

I look into her green eyes and wonder how someone so familliar can be so foreign to me.
I can see the cigarette burns on her clothes. The cuts on her legs.
She's paler than normal. I know she's tired, and I know she feels the strain.
She tells me this often.
Right now we are at two different stations.
I'm standing on platform at Angel, heading north-bound.
She's slouching against the barriers at Crossharbour in ripped tights, smoking a joint.
Just waiting; her train came off the rails.
I can see passion in her eyes, but its not for the good things.
It's for poisons and toxins; flesh and substance.
The night to my day; she's full of sex drugs rock and roll.
I've tried over and over to make her see what I see, but some feelings can't be harnessed for the better.
I want her to be more like me, I know life would become more simple then.
Part of me wishes I didnt know her.
Part of me wishes it was just me, alone.
But we come as a pair and we co-exist. This will always be set in stone.
From day one we battled with eachother, who was older.
Who was stronger, who was the more honest.
Who is more genuine?
I stand here looking at her, with the scars on my arms from the mistakes she has made.
I'm not to blame, but it's my fault. She's my fault.
Still, I will take it out on me, I always will.
Our blood and pain will always be shared.
It's hard to forget, but I try.
Each time I see this.
I think this is the last time, the sunset to sunrise, but I'm never right.
This is my goodbye.
I see her; a partially broken being; roughed up, incomplete, lost and confused.
Each time I wonder if things will ever change.
I wonder if they will get easier.
I wonder when it will stop being me and her, and will just become us.
Perhaps it will become either/or.
Each time I see her, I pity her.
Then I shut my eyes. Breathe in, tell myself that this is me.




















Then I walk away from the mirror.

2/3

Beautiful people.
Foreign faces.
Strange & distant familiar streets.
Feeling my age.
Talking about Roman roads and Duchamp.
Traffic.
Singing to the car radio.
Eating my way through the cultures.
Rain, refugees, books and spiders.
21st March 2009.

1/3

"When I look at the number of paintings I have painted, I sometimes wonder what I shall do with them. It would be a shame to burn them, there are over 10 years of work in them. But they are as useless as a church. They serve no purpose whatsoever."

Aleksandr Rodchenko 1927

I think I pass judgement too easily.
I think my advice is somewhat biased?
Is that the word I'm looking for?
Biased, wrong, un-educated.
Yes, un-educated.
I've been thinking lately, has all the advice I've ever given been wrong?
Maybe not all, but some.
If one day I go against the advice I've given, am I a hypocrite?
When something happens to you, I guess you'd realise how easy it is to do that thing with good intentions, or no intentions.
I sit there, with friends or strangers, giving out life lessons that I probably won't pay attention to one day.
Looking back on the advice given, "stay away from him" "you can do better" "don't stick around for that", have I listened to myself?
No.
When I have talked to people and thought, "how could you do that" "what were you thinking?", Now I know.
Looking back I understand. It's not easy, sometimes it's accidental.
Sometimes it's out of your hands.
Sometimes you can't help the hurt.
Sometimes the secrecy is too much.
Sometimes, just sometimes, you wish there were people out there who understood.
And I guess you'll find them in the places you least expect, they are the people you have given advice to.
They will possibly think less of you, or perhaps they will feel some form of release of relief.
You finally know how they felt. They aren't alone. You're not alone.

If you asked a murderer how it felt to kill, asked them to answer honestly, would they say it was easier than they expected?
How can we judge them when we ourselves have never killed.
Perhaps they once sat and thought to themselves, "I'd never do such a thing" "What could possess them?".
Now they know, and now, do they think differently?

I think differently after this.

all of my eggs are in one basket

sitting cold; looking at the irony

bottles bottles bottles and regret

I'm spoilt for choice
a right foot with cuts and a blanket with holes

sometimes people need a night off

a break from self-regulation
it was my christmas party

it was my fishing trip

a pure pecking party
it was the wine in my grape juice
and I'm sorry.
the two ideals are too hard to find
I don't think there's a balance anymore
amber stones and orchid lips
snakes, apples, and knowledge
chalk and cheese
cold fingers and two cold noses

underpasses and over bridges
if things were different.
if things were easy.
if things were you.

So let the tears fall like rain.

I forgot how much hurt and hatred fills the world.


I'd only end up deleting them after.
It's too much like laying my heart open.

I have so much I want to write.
I want to write that I haven't felt this crappy in a long time.
I want to write that I know I shouldn't and that I should be thankful for so much.
I want to write how I am a total fool.
I want to write how I am a fool because I make things so blindingly obvious.
I want to write about how it stings.
I want to write I hate that I am jealous.
I want to write that I won't let history repeat itself.
I will write that it's hard for me to understand because it's strange to me.
And I know that that in itself proves hard for you to understand.
I will write that I'm sorry.
I want to write that talking will/should help; but it won't and its effects are merely temporary.
I want to write how I feel inadequate, not enough and forgotten.

I want to write that I know I'm silly.
I want to write that I've never had it easy when it comes to this and I can't help but make comparisons.
I want to write that I always end up doing this to myself, and I blame myself.
I want to keep writing and writing but I have nothing to say, I have everything to say.

Words, for the first time today, seem to fail me.
I feel numb, and inadequate, I feel some pain.
When your Grandfathers carried you up the aisle in your little white box,
A tiny white moth flew past me, past your Mum and Dad up the parallel aisle.
My Mum always told me that when you see a small white feather falling it means that an angel is watching.
I saw one yesterday.
I believe in signs.
I believe you were there today little Sam, by your parents' side.
Perhaps in a place we cant see, but linked by these signs.
As I breathed out the Lord's Prayer (because on days like these I find it hard to make a sound) my words played before me from my lips like silver smoke spiralling in the cold Church air.
My tears burned my cheeks against my cold skin, and I wondered if you feel the cold.
I watched your mother cry. My B, my first ever friend; the one who I grew up with from the day I was born. I couldn't make it better this time. I can't.
When I held her by the grave side I realised how much I had missed her, and for a moment we were back at the start, and she was holding me like she used to when I had fallen, or when I was hurt, or crying over something broken.
This time I was soothing her, she had fallen and she was hurting and she had lost something broken.
I was filling her empty arms and I wondered if she was wishing I were you.
I told her I was proud of her, and she apologised for making me cry.
I wanted to tell her I loved her. I found it hard to speak. I couldn't.
I picked two Snowdrops. One, I kissed, and put in your grave, the crisp white matching your tiny coffin.
The other sits on my bedside.
I guess I somehow want them to be connected.
I somehow don't want this to be real, I don't want it to be real that as I am writing this the earth has fallen in on you and you are truly out of reach. You don't deserve to be gone.
When your Daddy carried you out in your little white box, my heart broke and the tears wouldn't stop.
I don't want to talk, I don't want to eat, or sleep.
I want you to have lived longer than your short eight hours so you can bring back your parents' smiles.
You could have brought them so much more love and happiness and joy, you could have done this so effortlessly; mend them, the way I want to but can't. It's too hard for me. I'm not right.
I wish you were able to smile.
Perhaps you are, right now, somewhere as people drink to your name.
Just like somebody read today;
Although you never breathed our air,
Or looked into our eyes,
That doesn't mean you never were;
An angel never dies.


This is for Beccie, Owen, Matte, Jo, Steve, Sarah, The Dunkleys, The Phillips and everyone who loved you.

It's times like these that remind me why I used to pray.

If I could ask one thing

It would be that you stopped blaming me for things that you are inducing yourself.
It's hurting me and making me feel like I'm in the wrong, maybe that's what you want...

I wrote this when I was on the train, in pencil, in a library book.

Sometimes it takes a physical metaphor to slap you right in the face before you realise something completely.
Today that happened to me, sometime between 16:19 and 16:24.
Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves.

heart (härt)
n.
wear (one's) heart on (one's) sleeve
To show one's feelings clearly and openly by one's behavior.

Mine wasn't so much on my sleeve; it was tied to my wrist.
There's one person who will actually understand this and this is all that matters to me.
This is for him.
I guess it wasn't so much my heart either; it was his, he gave it to me.
This one moment made everything so perfectly clear, clearer than ever and made me feel like I was floating along, just like his shiny heart at my side.
It hit me and I smiled and everything seemed to click into place.
His heart will always be with me, and I wont let it go.
People could tell that I'm his from one look.
He's tied to me, I'm tied to him.
I took his heart away with me and I know that my heart is still with him.
I'm tagged, by this beautiful thing, and everyone could see and I felt so happy and proud and complete and lucky and most of all grateful.
I honestly can't describe it well enough to do the moment justice, it was just one of those beautiful things that will stay with you for a long time.
Probably one of those moments that will only make sense to you.
Words can never quite match a feeling exactly, but I did my best.
I will paint this, then maybe you will see too.

16:28 - Begin

We throw our words around like rocks, and treat them like the air we breathe.

When in them all, truth and honesty and life collect.
They are glass, they are gold; fragile and precious.
We treat love like it is graffiti, regard it as the word Chapter.
As if it is a line of a nursery rhyme.
When it is the air we breathe, the glass, the gold and our words.
Truth, honesty, precious and fragile.
Life.






16:40 - end.

4th February 2008 - Samual Owen

Written February 4th; 9.50 pm

Happy Birthday Baby,
Though you may not see your next.
Welcome to this strange new world,
Although within your chest,
Your heart it beats so weakly,
Will you make the night?
Synthetic breath within your lungs,
Don't go without a fight.
Close nearby, I know the faces,
That watch you as you sleep.
Tears fill my eyes, my heart it aches,
At the thought we might not meet.
Today should be a happy day,
Full of gladness and of joy.
But too well I know, an old dear friend,
Could lose her baby boy.
What world is this; to take a child,
From these kind parents' arms?
How can so many sweetly sleep,
While we hide you from harm?
From the start she looked after me,
A loyal friend and true.
I wish how she protected me,
Could work right now for you.
Although most have not seen you,
Or touched your new born skin,
A part of you lives on in us;
Your family friends, your kin.
Baby boy don't be too scared,
Or cry when you're alone.
For in our hearts and in our minds,
Your presence will live on.
Happy Birthday Baby,
I send my prayers to you.
But if the angels take you now,
I send all my love too.


______


Samual Owen - Born February 4th 2008, to my dear friend B.
Died February 5th 2008.
My love is with you all. Words can't even comprehend.
You should never have had to go through this; and it hurts me from the bottom of my heart that yours has been broken.

Handwritten Vs. Typed

"Sitting by candle light,
On a bed that feels empty since you left.
Listening to boys with guitars, broadcasting their sublime stories through my speakers.
They talk of the quiet things, that no one else should know, with such brutal honesty I want to cradle it.
With a pen in my fingers I know the truth too well; It can't be contained.
I know that this isn't what they sing about. It's different.
I know it's not the same, but I also know this is better than any ballad sung by a wasted Romeo.
This is the making, the insulation and lining.
These are our roots.
Houses fall down when they are built on weak foundations, and even if the house does fall down, good foundations always remain.
Imprinted into the bedrock, a mark that withstands the storm. Sitting by candle light, I can still taste the snow.
I can still feel the flakes melting on my lashes, touching my lips where yours have before.
I still feel the sting on my fingertips from the cold.
I realise I miss you.
I realise I'm scared; and I know I still have my guards up. Not just around me, but protecting you too.
So much is at stake, so much responsibility.
When you play with fire it's so easy to get burned.
I hope you realise you've inspired me.
I know sometimes words aren't enough.
I know I have an artist's soul; but words are the colours on my pallet, and I have a writer's heart.
So when I paint this picture of words for you, know that the colours glow.
You warm my fingers when they sting, and no matter what ruin befalls our bricks and mortar, our foundations will last through it all.
Writing by the light of this fire, I hope to myself that what we build is strong."

you are nothing but a smile and nervous laughter spend the evenings in your dark blue cotton sheets and i spent years it seems just wondering through the darkness then the answer came on that late summer breeze and the headlights on the highway could not help me understand whatever it is you need i pray i am with my finger tips i trace on your bare skin all of the things id like to say but can not speak you mean everything and there's not quite words enough to tell you all the things you've become for me

Fireflies Flash

1)

Open the flood gates,
Let the rain pour.
And stand out with my toes in the earth,
Letting it roar.
Feeling no power,
But who says that's bad?
This could be the best I've ever had.
How will I know if I don't open these gates.
So I undo the latch, and fling them out wide.
Wet warmth washes over me, I smile with a sigh.


2)

Fireflies flash, with no power to last.
Hurt stays for longer than the smiles.
Sometimes to save them, you hurt them at the start.
But its not you hurting them, It's saving them from what could hurt.
You care too much to even give it a chance.
Is that possible?
Fireflies flash, and I never want to see you sad.

Tonight, Amongst Friends,

I will pretend that I am on a beach in the Orange County.
And I will pretend that its warm sand under my feet, rather than the cold ground.
At least I will have my friends, a crate of beer, and a bonfire.
I'm secretly looking forward to pretending to myself.
And wearing lots of woollen clothing.

Do you remember?

Do you remember when you first learned to read?
Do you remember when things began to come clearly, rather than stuttered and slow?
I don't.

Thinking about you makes me happy.
Am I running away with myself already?
Probably. I just hope this isn't devoid of a happy ending.
This one could be something I'd not want to let go of..

I haven't woken up next to someone in so long.
It was strange, but nice.
That was the one thing I missed the most out of everything.

I'm happy.

Ultimately.

Ultimately.
I love that word.

In the end of all this, everything will be fine.
Mine, yours, his, hers and everyone's emotions are up and down, and in and out.
But in the end, it will all work out, and we will die happy.

I think everyone who lives their life out until the natural end will die happy.
And I think you will too.
I think you worry too much, you think each year is a milestone, but I know you'll be here 'til the end, And you know it too.

I really fancy going to the sea.
Or, somewhere. Anywhere. Take me away?
I want to be with friends. And I want to know what to choose; but if I know that I guess I could say "Where's the fun?"

Whats the rush? We've all the time in the world.

Keeping our life lines close, And aiming for top score.
We all play life like it's a game.
But whats the point?
Nobody gets out alive anyway.


GO DO SOMETHING FUN.
RIGHT NOW.
Go out, and do something you'd not usually do.
Stop playing the game and feel alive for the first time.

Met once before, Now you're a Metaphor.

Knowing you is like skating on shiny ice, I can reflect in you.
You take me to such speeds, And it's so easy to keep going and going.
All the while I'm sliding though, Faster and Faster.
Sometimes out of control.
When I fall you help me up.
Sometimes the ice breaks, and I fall through into this other world.
I feel the icy rush of being without you.
As soon as I’m in, the ice freezes back over.
I'm trapped.
But later you break the ice again, or perhaps I do.
And I set off skating again...

Confusing, Ambiguous, A Surprise.
Contradictory, Irrational, An anomaly.


_____


My dreams are coming back.
I’ve dreamed more in the last 2 nights than I have in months.
I miss dreaming.
They remind myself of parts of me that I’m cut off from now.
It’s strange.
As confusing as you are, And as unhelpful as you can be, You’re the only one I want to talk to about this.