Clockwork field

The breeze causes time to pause around your face,

inner cogs jarred in a perpetual smile

of this moment in the long grass,

side by side with you, speaking in tongues

because words no longer matter,

our minds criss-crossed like the latticework on a cherry tart,

promising sweetness but sometimes adding a sharp tang

just to shake things up.


Lip Locked

Considering all the words I have in my head, all the thoughts, opinions, the attitudes that make me me, why, when I have chance to open my mouth, does the flow of my mind run dry?

Why can’t I be the one to argue a point and deliver a message succinctly? Why do I stutter and stare, fighting against my very self just to say something simple, or think in a straightforward way, before my answers stumble, scattered, from my lips?

Why? Why? Why do I need to justify myself to myself? Justify the way that I am? Why does it matter if I can’t verbalise my thoughts,¬†when I can with paper and pen?