It’s not about the flowers in your hair, or the chill in the air. 

It’s not about the candy floss twined  in your fingers, or the houses made of timbers. 

It’s not about the sand between your toes, or watching your bank account grow. 

It’s not about the hundreds of faces you meet by chance, or those who always say ‘you can’t’

It’s about the smile spreading on your face as the sun lights the flowers in your hair. 

It’s about which face is holding you as tight as bear, to keep you warm from the chilling air. 

It’s about the sweet taste of sugar and how every bite you take makes you feel as though once again your bones are those of a child, excited, warm and mild. 

It’s about how the sea calmed your worries and how the sand scrubbed away your fears. 

It’s about that one particular face you look for in the montage of all the others; the one face that tells you it’s with them you have a homely place. 

It’s not about the cliche sayings hung in the walls of your marble house, or the hundreds of nobody’s passing through. 

It’s about the memories and that moment which once created those sayings, it’s about which face is holding you tight and standing next to you when the wind can cause a fright. It’s about you. And it’s about them. 



She’s tired of chasing, when she knows she could be racing. 

She’s bored of watching her dreams at night, only to find they are the opposites of her frights. 

She’s done with soft words and shallow smiles, for all the smiles are now made of daggers and words of scissors. 

She’s angry with being so strong all the time, why can’t she be her soft, damp self for once. 

She’s sad at always being happy, why can’t she be the person they fucking carry.