Punters only buy into words if they believe there’s worth. I’ve been begging for buyers before premature birthdays. Let earth spin unaware – never questioned its axis. Hid from the anxious parties, continued chewing table cloths, then choked on the spike of a train stub.
Not much value in a decade thrice lived – standing on the coast in yesterday’s underwear, a teenage busker sits between hip-hop legacy as new marble faces arrive in constant rotation. I’m waiting for my estranged brother dance, who ran out on me despite his free diary entries. Desperate for reunion. Bitter for the jives lost.
I’ve stepped further than I ever pictured but I’ll never walk away from the stalking wolves. Cubs are warned but continue to ignore all advice. Lions that scrap with the pack tell me to enjoy the plains. So I forget the bites and burn this poem in my future face.
Poem #24 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. Coming to terms with getting older.
I get excited by naps giddy after one wine make-up itches my face always wake up after nine one tea on the hour one bath every week two bags under the eyes two once-perky cheeks gardening is my ****** libraries, my ******* silence is my saucy lover - noise equals pain my hair is lush, healthy because I wash it rarely my legs are nice and smooth because I let them grow hairy
But, on the count of 30
I am more resilient than before I have a bessa-block mind mixed with a molten-gold heart of softness and wisdom, refined.