~ A writing task that grew... briefly. And then was promptly forgotten about. It's not creative, i'm just re-telling facts that are a little too close to home. Names and locations haven't been changed. I'm lazy.
Another poem. I'm sick of this already. Actually, i'm not sure if it's the poems, or the fact that i'm sat here eating honey in the dead of night.
At the asylum,
Bricks and mortar are
Our great divide
The shadow in the teapot
Sneers back at me from bitter tannins
“pour out the tea”
Pour out your sins with a lump of sugar
I tried to write,
To explain why I was sorry
But it wasn’t my fault-
When you replaced your ‘beautiful Patsy’
With the beautiful game
And we used the children as a
I knew we were strangers
Just sharing a bed.
I only ever liked you when you were drunk,
When gin became your cologne
And your smell lingered on our bedsheets-
Remember? Egyptian cotton, top of the range.
When you left,
I covered them with snaking lines of flowers and vines
To make a tablecloth
For afternoon tea.
When the children faded,
And you hid my pills in a packet of Marlboro
To stop me climbing the walls,
You found me in the basement
Scaling the floor.
They said you drank to drown your sorrows,
But you almost drowned me too.
Now the ink won’t stop bleeding,
However loud I scream.
The paper deafens me,
And I know it wouldn’t cover the distance.
Porchester Road to
A few miles,
The words would arrive stale.
In time, I’ll pour it all out
On warm, soft parchment
Smelling of gin and cheap fags.
On your veins, on your eyes, on your hands,
On your skin.
Writing on skin.