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  Jul 2018 B
Ben Jones
At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room
Where the cockroaches eat what the rats don’t consume
There’s a table enveloped in paper and grime
On a carpet now lost to a happier time
With a cast iron typewriter, rusted with age
In the gloomy wee room at the back of the stage

And under a lampshade of nicotine brown
Sits a comical legend of zero renown
How he plugs at the keys of his rattling beast
The years of persistence have left him decreased
Now he’s stuck in the shade of his hovering doom
At the back of the stage in a gloomy wee room

His words are for others and too, the applause
Though a standing ovation might cause him to pause
He hasn’t the courage to speak them aloud
For he’s lacking the bottle and shy of a crowd
So he captures the laughter in lines on his page
In a gloomy wee room at the back of the stage
  Jul 2018 B
Everything I write is too passionate in the wrong direction
My words don't flow like I want them to
Breaking apart over rapids instead of floating into the ocean

The dictionary doesn't help
And all elegance is coincidence
Because they always said I was a tom boy
And I would never fit in
And so the words they sprayed at me
Are all the ones in my mind

I'm sorry I can't express myself right.

(They still look at me oddly whenever I dress up)

(I wish I could change myself without their derision)

(This dress was my decision)

And once again I'm veering directly off track
Talking about where my sleep addled mind always leads
It always circles around to me

Can I be blamed when the nightmares tug at my hands
And pull me
Screaming silently
With tears on my face
Back to wakefulness every few hours?

But I'm sorry
Writing a poem like the page will listen
Because my salary can't afford therapy
And my friends think I'm okay.

Words and jumbled thoughts after a fumbled night in the dark like I won't regret it in the morning

Maybe this is what is meant
By 'it's just a desperate plea for attention'
(I didn't talk to you for fame)
(I just want to know I'm not the one to blame)

-(I'm not alone?)-

But this blank canvas
Had no form of degree
So I'll cease
And just let these hollow words
  Jul 2018 B
Pagan Paul
Take a peek inside his poems
if you really want to know him.
He hides himself deep, immersed
a tiny piece in every verse.

Take a peek and take your time
savour the moment of every line.
Relish the thought of what lies there
and appreciate his soul laid bare.

© Pagan Paul (31/08/16)
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