I feel the world as though caught in a storm upon a cliff
And everyone else seems bone dry.
But we all have a dampness hidden inside
A mulch of wasted hours and cruel words.
Vines grow thick from this mud.
Grip our lungs and sap our will.
Strong swords are needed to break
Out of that thicket.
I see the child in all the people
And all the parents who did their best
Not knowing how fragile a human mind can be
Soft inside its domed skull
Doomed because it cannot protect
Sorrow breathes through bone
And makes itself a cosy home
A synaptic nest
Tough as steel
It builds a highway through the gentle lanes of your mind.
Something is wrong with the skin of me
There’s a quiet scream in my marrow
My head, like a baby’s, too heavy to support
Tear out my eyes and re-orb my sockets with balls that can see what is real
Not the petty, ugly smallness that shreds up my life
But the beat and rhythm
The ebb and ebb and ebb
Of all the cells in all.
The wasted hours press their faces to the glass
The dulled edges glare and gape
Stoking the great guilt fire
That cripples and carouses
Drunk and screaming
There is no neatness to be found
No carpet under which to hide the dust of musts and shoulds and aught tos.
Haughty in it’s elevated air.
From it’s perch it picks and pummels
Any semblance of peace I salvage
From each day.
I wake as tired as before.
Should-shod in heavy boots of wanting.
Sadness sticks to skin
Like the stink of salmon
Scrub as you might
And though you pummel down to the bone
It will not relax its waxy fingers
Until you feel utterly alone
And then it slinks back to its cave
To file its nails.
Can’t get a grip
All turns to smoke in my cold fingers.
I wake up with the duvet on the floor.
The fruit has gone bad.
Underneath my skin sadness ferments
And though I talk and wash and walk
I am not there.
Feeling heavy and fallow
I walk the streets
A waft of bacon hits my face
The smell of home and love.
Locked in the crevice of this moment.