Discontent spreads like a spill,
Red wine seeping under the sofa,
Soaking the fibres of the carpet,
Drenching the contents of your soul.
Or like mould, crusting at the creases
Of your being, creeping into the corners
Of who you think you are.
Panic rising, like bile,
Swallowed back until the poison
Can sear you no more
And gushes out, engulfing
Everything you thought you knew.

But I've been told otherwise!
Past and present, I protest,
And he sneers.
What makes me so,
I query?
And he relents but says instead I'm just

nothing special

And the harsh slap of mediocrity stings
My greatest fear
To be
That nothing person
Face in the crowd person
The deadly sea of in between

What is left to forget?
The searing trial of my regret
Softened its grip on my mind
With each passing glass of wine.
At fortunes mercy, alas
I'm compelled to fill my glass.
Come clairvoyant, read my palm?
To prevent the spilling of your yarn
I'll hand you a cup of ****
-My dear, what will come of this?
I'm saving your credibility
You'd be a fool not to see
That my futures tainted red,
As my kidneys slowly bled.
He at blame, he turned around
And told me that I should slow down.
Pray tell then dear, what should I do?
Live by the needle, just like you?

One query that I have today,
Is why do we look down to pray?
And when we wish, we raise our eyes
Heavenwards, beyond our skies?
This troubles me, and I'll explain:
Tis the principle that brings me pain.
In prayer, should we not face our Lord,
Positioned there to be adored?
And shouldn't shame lower our gaze
Towards the roaring souls ablaze,
Crushed beneath the Devil's dancing,
Should we not face him in fancy?

In winter, we went.
Clandestine, beneath the crispest sky,
Armed with carrier bags and clippers
Undisturbed by passers-by.
And frosty twigs cracked underfoot,
The trees around were starved of life.
A landscape drained of colour, and you alike,
As you looked at us, but saw your wife.
We strode through greying groups of bushes
Hems caught on outstretched arms of thorns.
I struggled; how could we three seem together
Yet underneath, I knew we'd torn.
We talked of life, and things before
Our time, we talked of war.
You grappled through the crunchy, ashen leaves
To find the perfect stick to whittle.
Kicking 'round carcasses of trees once grand
Now dusty gray, worn and brittle.

And there! In clusters, what we'd sought
Had ****** the life blood from the day
And would release a drop for nought
Trapped in bursting beads so gay.
Them voluptuous, glowing knots
Crowned by pointed varnished leaves
Would shine clipped to a lady's breast
But would do instead for our wreaths.

I feel as though I have choked something up tonight,
As though my bones are creaking back to life.
I feel as thought the mist is thinning
my eyes are clearer
my head's not pounding
the chattering mouths have ceased around me.
I feel as though my lungs can breath,
It's not an action forced by me;
There's cherry trees, their blossoms bobbing
my racing, weeping heart's stopped throbbing
that's not my chest that I feel sobbing

don't let me muse don't let me think
and quickly pass another drink

I lean over the toaster,
Cig clinging to chapped lip skin,
Tip brushing electric wire,
A burst of smoke, aha!
(My Mam stole my lighter.)
Instead of lovely nicotine
My fringe burns in front of me.
And I wish this was
A witty metaphor
For my ****** life,
A humorous illustration,
But instead it is
Just a woeful addition.

Hang me from the Heavens, tell
All pray God to save my soul
But half; for evil is not whole
And send the rest to Hell.

Such a cruel mystery
The male species is to me;
I find, if I dream of him at dawn,
By lunch I'm often left forlorn.
But if I keep him from my thoughts,
He will not keep away for naught!

Hindsight, how you cruelly cast
Sour light upon my memories.
There's no one here left to please
-unfortunately, no one to share
The glowering of the devils glare.
They left, each one followed suit.
Who am I to point the finger,
Can't blame those who didn't linger,
Would I have done?
Can't say I would;
It's sad to watch a life be drained
To watch it be reduced to grain
And sadder still, with such potential,
Oh, it's such a waste they'll say!
I'm ruined further by high hopes,
If they hadn't said I could I wouldn't be
Torn between the life they chose to live through me.
It's not my own reality
I was told, I'd fulfil all dreams
Though not my own, so it seems.

How they share not, the blood they pump,
Is a riddle that renders me dumb.
Ponderous, how they are so alike,
And yet he is not his son.

Oh! The heartache I had felt,
At the tender age of seventeen.
Losses haunted, like the silver specks of weakness,
That danced before my eyes.
Oh the anguish!
Of all those boys I deeply loved
(And yes, I loved them truly!)
I was seventeen - practically a woman!
Of course I knew what love was.

Yet that day before I shed my childhood,
I ****** my childish ignorance,
As I was called to stand *****,
In front of the mole-hill field of mourners
As the men, they trembled under the weight,
Of your coffin, and the crushing grief,

And I endured your hero's call home,
Hand in hand with a faceless person.
Not once but twice.
No mercy.
The bugle, it wept for me.

And I held back tears and realised
That loss is not the beating of your teenage breast
And standing in the shower as tears mix with soap
And writing poems full of teenage angst
And slamming doors and phones against walls.

This is loss.
This will always be loss.