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."