I hafe a wobby tooth,
Won’t you take a wookth?
It keepsth biting me at dinner,
No wonder I’m getting thinneth.

I puth it with my tongue,
I play wifth it all day long,
But it refuthes to come out,
Whaths that all about?

It’th a terrible disthtraction,
It rethists any extracthion,
Esthpecially when I bruth,
It hurts when I clean my musth.

I hafe a wobby tooth,
That I just can’t shake loothe!
When will I escape thisth disthpleasure,
And accessth thisth fairy treasthure?

Ith wobbie (so I’m told).

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It’s the small things.
The way you tuck your hair
Behind your ears.
How you curl up
On the sofa,
Or stretch,
Like a slowly unfolding
Wisp of smoke,
As a prayer,
Released from incense.
The cuddle in the cold,
To share my heat.
The forgetting,
My recounting.
Your nodding head,
Midway through the movie.
The way I notice,
The slight sweep of your foot,
When I walk behind you.
Who else could catch me so,
With such subtleties?
Or, come to it,
Put up with me,
When I’m not half as endearing.

Wrote this for my partner.

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I don’t want to be the runner,
The tight smile,
Under tearful eye.
Nothing but memories,
And miles.

I don’t want to be out,
In any weather,
Rain or shine.
Running from ghosts,
Taken before their time.

I don’t want a marathon,
Or shaking of change in a box.
To fill my hours
Fundraising for the lost.
I don’t want to be the runner.

Apologies this is late, a little bit on at the moment, didn’t have the time to spare.

--

--

Let me have this moment,
To crumble, Slowly fall away,
And disappear on the wind.
For I am frayed,
Past holding together,
And must unravel.

I want to fold up but,
Not gracefully like as a fan,
I shall crumple like paper,
Collapsed into,
An ever smaller ball,
Until I am gone.

I crept up on myself,
and slowly pulled away the rug,
Now I tumble down dark hill.
I’d wash away
But I can’t drown the fears,
When tears will not come.

Probably doesn’t need explaining much this one, things just get on top of us sometimes, this is about that.

--

--

He was a lad most handsome,
Though you’d struggle to know.
A veritable Samson,
He let his hair grow and grow.

No hair dresser was permitted,
To touch his golden mop.
He was committed,
To never visit a barber’s shop.

His mum and dad tried their best
To get him a trim,
But he ignored their request,
He wouldn’t even put hair clips in.

So as he grew in aspect,
And up and up he shot,
The over all effect,
Was that of a dandelion clock.

Yes, on grew the shaggy mane,
Until one fateful day,
There was a hurricane,
And the wind carried him away.

Another silly one, my eldest has been cultivating a pretty shaggy mop. Looks pretty good on him truth be told.

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--

Things, they fall apart.
Without care,
Without constant attention,
Entropy sneaks in.
Eroding, corroding,
Time conquers all.
Either because
The ask is too much,
Too late,
Never comes,
Or the sand,
Simply,
Runs
Out.

Apologies, this is late, thought I’d set this to publish and did not. This is a little about interpersonal relationships, but also a bit of muse on political matters. Everything you gain, needs to be maintained, as recent events show…

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