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Aug 2
5 am,
Can't sleep,
Every time he tosses and turns,
He goes to the bathroom,
Wash hands,
Wash face,
Cold tap only,
Hot's broken again,

He makes a mental note to call the plumber tomorrow,
He counts down the hours on the clock,
Wishing, waiting for it to stop,
He stares into the bathroom mirror,
Trying to find pieces of himself,
That aren’t already burnt to ash,

He was so artistic,
He painted smiles onto everybody's faces,
Except his own,
He was a phantom,
A whisper,
Only a ghost,
Everyone who met him,
They were just hopelessly search for a pulse,
That they knew they wouldn't find,
He was only a waste.

Bathroom sink,
Runs cold, wet fingers through itching scalp,
Drags them right down,
The nape of his neck,
Ice water trickles to the back of his spine,

3, 2, 1,
Tap's leaky,
He feels like life isn't an adventure anymore,
More of a deadly maze with poisonous leaves and jagged rocks sort of thing,
The kitchen,


1, 2, 3,
Sticky, cracked, peeling linoleum floor,
Chipped countertops,
Stained with droplets of spilt tea,

He never feels holy,
He only feels ungodly,
His heart is filled with memories,
From good times that never actually happened,

He isn't a smoker, a binge-drinker... nor an addict,
He is just hooked on the feeling of being real,

He sleeps irregularly,
He cries and breathes at the same time,
Yet he still manages to not make a sound,
His face falls apart every night,
And he pieces back together every morning,

He rolls his fingers into his palms,
Closes his eyes,
Holds his breath,
And counts to ten,
Hoping the air inside of him will slowly expand so much that he'll diminish,
So he'll have to rebuild himself all over again,
He still holds his words in tightly clenched fists,
He still holds his mind in weakened wrists,
He sits on the cold, tiled bathroom floor,

He is blue,
His smile is charcoal black,
His eyes are the colour of cognac,
He is now the darkest colour on the spectrum,

Curled up securely in the corner,
He starts his morning,
Pulls himself out of his duvet cocoon,
And drags himself to the shower,
Scorching hot bullets of water,
Scar his back,
He doesn't mind the heat though,
It's 5.30am,
At least that's what the wall clock says, he puts the kettle on,

1, 2, 3,
Spills coffee on the floor,
Drops cafetiere,
Milk's off as well,
How could this day possibly get any worse?
He could make you feel like gravity didn't exist,
Trying to steal his heart would be like trying to pick up all the shards of a shattered glass bottle,
He's not a man, he's a storm with skin,
And he is now the eye of the hurricane,
That he was once within,

The bus journey to work,
Last time he checked,
It was 5.45am,
The fogged windows play out scenes of rain-soaked cities,
Sun-bleached asphalt,
Glistens in the frosty, unwelcome downpour,
Curbs shift in surges,
Down canals of rainwater,

Even if the world was crashing down around him,
If he was on the edge of heaven,
Trying not to fall into hell,
As long as he can still be here,
He'll be fine,
This city is a playground for the rich,
And a battleground for the poor,

This ungodly place is filled with smokers,
Quietly inhaling their toxic fumes,
Breathing smoke clouds so big,
They'd have you believe they were skies,

This disgusting place is filled with drinkers,
Turning their bodies into oceans of regret,
Lakes of debt,
Of all the student loans that they could never pay off,


This city is filled with Angels and Monsters,
Saints and Sinners,
Walking down the high street,
Where buzzing neon signs,
And glowing streetlights,
Cast shadows onto the paving slabs,
Making it look like a watercolour canvas,

There's nothing like a city before sunrise,
With its brisk winds and at least a hundred different shades of grey,

Nervously,
He checks the clock again,
11.25am,
It's his insomniac's lullaby,
11, merges murkily with his sleepless nights,
Ticking of the clock,
Rings loud in his ears,
Almost like church bells,

Is he the writer who sits abandoned?
Talking to the moon,
He never imagined a city to be so isolated at dawn,
A place so bustling for so long,
Could become so empty...
His bus stopped outside the subway station,
He feels like life is gradually becoming,
Just another lucid hallucination,

3, 2, 1,
He's on his way,
Up the hill to work,

1, 2, 3,
He takes a second to himself,
To breathe in the snowflakes,
He always liked those little flower blossoms that erupt in bursts of vibrant colour,
Through the grey sidewalks,
Now it's back to reality,

3,2,1
He steps back into the cold winter air,
And returns to his daily journey,
1,2,3
He's wandering through the city centre,
He checks his phone again,
It says 11.45am,
Work starts at 12,
Frostbites violently at his lips,
Swirling smokes twist around his fingertips,

These are the days he dreads most,
Early mornings,
Late nights,
Diets of,
Salty fries,
Cold coffee,
Microwaved chicken pieces,
He gorges himself on the only food his pay check grants him the pleasure of eating,

This is what happens when it's dark out,
Monsters are coming...
Well.... his are already on the prowl for him,
But he's already learned to hide,
That's all he's done,
His entire life,
He can be safe that way,
But trust me,
He's cutting steel with a blunt knife,
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, and finally 1.
B The Poet
Written by
B The Poet  15/Non-binary/my brain, where else?
(15/Non-binary/my brain, where else?)   
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