Starved

I can’t hear.

I can’t think straight.

My mind and body starved.

Reason fighting with fate,

obstinately refusing to accept

that there is anything wrong.

My body inert,

a barren mass

fighting itself,

fighting its fears.

Scared to step aside

and make way

to hope…

Is it possible?

Possible to become

familiar with yourself?

To accept and acknowledge

every intricacy,

every human nuance?

To discern the purpose;

its value in surrender,

to my own brilliance…?

and imperfection…?

in equal measure.

Back to Black by Amy Winehouse

He left no time to regret, kept his dick wet
With his same old safe bet
Me, and my head high, and my tears dry
Get on without my guy

You, went back to what you knew, so far removed
From all that we went through
And I, tread, a troubled track, my odds are stacked
I’ll go back to black

We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
And I go back to, I go back to, us

I love you much, it’s not enough
You love blow and I love puff
And life, is like a pipe
And I’m a tiny penny rolling up the walls, inside

We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
When I go back to

We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
And I go back to

Black, black, black, black
Black, black, black
I go back to
I go back to

We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
And I go back to

We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
And I go back to black

Undersold

Promises were made

in the darkness of shadows.

A reality filling the spaces

between whispered intent.

Oxygen breathing

life into the fiery belly

of a fictional world

where truth is misspent.

Love undersold

in a heartless transaction.

It’s previous owner

removed all the tags.

No longer shiny

it bares the hallmarks of lonely.

Its beauty hidden

beneath a soiled layer of rags.

The Whole Shebang

I caught a glimpse

momentarily

of what could be;

the potential of

the whole shebang.

Another kindred spirit

mislaid,

lost too in a familiar life.

Shared dreams, aspirations,

distanced

by circumstance,

united by certainty,

by the belief

that there is so much more…

Mediocrity,

alien

to us both.

Continually searching,

connected

purely by thought.

“Supergirl”

The last peg is stuck fast

in the fertile earth

of my past.

I have kicked,

sworn and cried,

with frustrated understanding,

not noticing

my steadfast hold;

my foot in the door.

One hand tied,

bound by memory.

The other pushing,

pulling,

grasping at straws.

She’s sowing seeds, she’s burning trees

She’s sowing seeds, she’s burning trees

She’s a Super girl, a Super girl

Sunflowers pulled,

mistook

for unfulfilled promises…

My mistake?

Your mistake?

When you’re in love what can go wrong?

The last peg is stuck fast

in the fertile earth

of my past.

I was you…

The end goal,

their sole goal.

A shallow life

bereft of real soul.

They ask,

what it is like

to be old.

To be a postscript

to their prologue;

their ink soaked dreams.

These girls count

their age in fractions.

Eager to experience everything.

To wear it fast and loose.

 

‘Whatever…’

 

Blind to their

own beauty.

Individuality main-streamed

A Selfie redeemed

social popularity.

I was you

I tell them.

I was every uncertainty,

every weight,

the hormonal fate

of alien limbs.

Contorting my will

to hide my ignorance,

through a detached indifference.

Perfection is flawed.

I assure them.

I was you,

before I became me.