Wet toes

These last few days I have realised how much I hate snow. I love winter just not the snow. I must admit that it is does look pretty and fluffy, like white candy floss land with cotton wool hills. I dislike what happens when it touches the ground and transforms into freezing rivers and mini ice-skating ranks. Slipping and sliding and holding on to dear life is not my cup of tea. I want to be able to power walk to my designations and wear my pretty shoes that seems to always flirt dangerously with the ice. There is nothing worst than walking with the fear of falling. With feet planting uncertainly at every careful step.

Wet toes

I take off my boots to numb toes touching wood flooring
With warmth wondering to places unknown
As the inner depths of my being feels so cold

Walking snow pavements and tasting sky flakes
I try and focus on things of distraction
My head hurts from trying
I give up and look at the dirty snow I tread

I have worn the wrong boots
Suede ones that are not waterproof
My toes are wet or just cold
I am glad to be back home

The Bus

A very long bus journey and a sleeping baby was the ideal opportunity to pull out my notebook and think and write random things. Not to mention my past time favorite, studying people and pretend I know everything about their life. Below is one of the outcomes of 'the bus'.

The drunk

The youthfulness of his face
Hid the aged old eyes
Swimming in alcohol and lost
If his stubble beard was darker he'll look years younger
I say to myself

His green coat hugged him tight
And was a shield of protection
Not just against the weather
But people and life
And the voices speaking in his head
He didn't look like a drunk
As the darkness of his skin hid it well
But he was
I say to myself

The strong smell of alcohol soaked his skin
Vacant look on those loved eyes
The bottle of vodka warming his left hand
An aura of sadness surrounding him
He was a drunk
How sad and a waste of a God created life
I say to myself

Another sleeping poem called "Wanting Sleep"

Sleepless blues at for four in the mourn
Consuming a restless mind seeking bedroom bliss
Peacefully rocking to sounds of Maxwell
The jazz of neo soul moving through the shadows

Shall the forces of sleeplessness be subdued
And my tiredness submitted
To dreams of floating on cloud nine
And feet soaking in salty blue waters
Underneath a bed of white sands

Or opening the door to a voice saying
It could be you
And a million pound cheque in the post

Instead I find myself rhyming to the soft finger steps of keyboard pavements
As I update my status on a friend of the night known as facebook
Then I sigh