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Fred Wakefield Oct 2012
Joints stiff, torso still,
Fingers bent, little will.
Rods strengthen my legs
Keeping me balanced.
I am totally hairless,
Eyebrows painted on.
Stuck in this body
No movement is my own.
I was created this size,
I’ve never grown.
To move I am aided
With callous roughness.
Dressed by others
Who couldn’t care less.
“Don’t look at me like that!”
This dress and hat I did not pick,
I cannot help my stance
And yet you stare
Without embarrassment.
And when naked
In the bright spotlight,
It does not deter you.
Some point,
Some laugh,
I get your looks,
But not your love.
It’s not easy
Being a shop mannequin.
Isabel Aghahowa Feb 2019
within the red is life unwoven
an unknown that rests undefined
before it knows it’s end
it leaves traces of its redundance in the shape of senseless tremors
and restless quivers
that leave me paralysed in time

the blood curse 
the ritual of unborn futures  
it leaves me thinking  of
slashing the bonds of my abdomen
for the bittersweet release
of this cascading trauma
will leave me unmade
and free from bloodfilled womanhood
Debbie Lydon Mar 2019
Silhouette stranger's scattered lights,
In hand-me-down houses and council flat nights,
In not being known, a private delight,
But as a bird in it's cage, it's sad, out of sight.

The smell of disdain in the pouring rain,
Becoming ever more potent as it falls again,
The bitter-sweet pain of elusive strife,
I'm swiftly sketching a stagnant life.

Tomorrow's demands stretch out their hands,
Trenching my feet in these old sands,
Night's ink comes back to blot the Sun's ray,
Oh, you cruel architect of my new day.

Attire of lowly and shy grey,
No longer will I clothe my body in your cliché,
Passion is still burning in my paralysed soul,
I need not your stability to make me whole.
Kenya83 Oct 2018
Eternal tug of war will come what may
Non-religious, I pray, for the comfort of day
Then hope for night to take the pain away
Fear holds me paralysed
Stuck in the mud of yesterday, today
Weight of the worlds contradictions fall
What if it’s my own heart I betray?
I’ve been watching the seasons change
from this lonely little bus stop shelter.
Waiting in limbo,
as the leaves turn from an animated green,
to the frost bitten crunch
of once was.
The landscapes danced dynamically before.
Trees swayed blissfully
over the vibrantly brushstroked canvas;
yet now they stand still.
Paralysed, like a Polaroid picture.
But in this time of waiting;
my momentary detention of movement;
a suspension of my heart’s desires.
I’ve observed as the scenery
turns to the deceased.
The dead.
The diminished.
And returns back
to the living
as it always does
and always will
Just as seasons change, so will how we feel.
Keiri Aug 2019
Social introverts and a shy extroverts.
Dyslectics grading better in spelling.
Deaf children who know more words.
People with anxiety better at selling.

Kids with ADHD who are more calm.
Autistics who can relate better.
Paralysed people able to feel their palm.
A blind person ready to read every letter.

Who could guess their equality.
Could you imagine, you can't tell 'em appart?
Who could even think of such a society.
Just look at this, humanity's piece of art!

Who could imagine I'm one of ''them''.
One alike you and the rest of this place.
For we all are a different kind of gem.
All shining in our own simple grace.

If there's a ''them'' and there's an ''us''.
But none can tell one from another.
Is there a ''them'' at all, thus.
Then why a ''them'', it's only a bother.
What is disabled these days. After studying the brain and the basics of psychology, all I've ever learned is that we know nothing. Why make a different if we're all the same. And why, when we're all so different, group people who are alike, because no one is a copy of another, yet no one is different at all.
Tee Morris Feb 2019
Only four walls
They all drown me inside
The fear of no escape
My head begins to break

The walls trap my thoughts inside
I'm completely unable to hide
My anxiety strangles me
What if my claustrophobia finds me?

My legs begin to tremble as I'm stuck in this space
My heart begins to pound as my eyes see the crowd
I wish I could run but I can't find an escape
Now my fears holding me hostage with tape

I can't seem to move
I've become paralysed
My body starts to shake
My eyes see weird shapes

I'm trembling with fear
I feel my cheek wet with tears
Now I'm laying on the floor
My claustrophobia found me with it's claws
- I'm not the biggest fan of this but it's 1am and I'm unable to sleep -
Candy Flip Mar 2016
When I was a child, there was something mildly special about standing in the garden, late into the minutes leading up to my bed time. It was something about the thrill of disobedience, as if I were already an adult, making my own decisions.

This poem is about my testicles.

A thousand twinkling freckles gazed down at me. Joining the dots with a finger extended high as if gripping an imaginary pen, lines would appear. The celestial wrinkles of an old woman who wears these wrinkles with pride – the imprint left by a lifetime of smiles like how an old arm chair wears the imprint left by a lifetime of back-sides.

A singular eye governs the sky, and through what I interpret as a flirty act of desire, winks at me, through a thirty day cycle. I let out a giggle, and wink back.

On the horizon, trees sway in a purposeful and rhythmic way, as if conducting a symphony meant just for me; the delicate harmony of distant car horn beeps, the melody of crickets and bird tweets, and the gentle percussion of snapped twigs and crushed leaves.

Blades of wet grass become fingers seductively passing between my toes. A gust of wind blows and like a comb, massages out the knots in my hair, whispering through a foreign tongue pros into my ear.

And I can feel it inside, a connection with the night. As passion builds, a bird takes flight, and I let out a confident breath: I am in love with life! I’m in love with the Earth, warm days and clear skies. I’m in love with nature: the birds and mammals, snails, slugs, spiders and flies.

I await a reply.

Which doesn’t come.

Years go by.

And then, half way through my puberty, when the world was not so alien and new to me, I had the sad epiphany that maybe this symphony of car horns and bird tweets was not meant for me.

That, if I were not standing precisely here, or had tragically lost both my ears, the trees would continue to conduct their tune, unstirred by the news that their audience had disappeared.

And with this realisation, came an audible, synchronised plop, as – like a penny – my two ***** simultaneously dropped as if recoiling, paralysed in shock.

Then in the following silence, a tumbleweed drifted by as if to imply some kind of mockery to the thoughts going through my mind.

But of course, it was just a coincidence. The tumbleweed, in its oblivious innocence has no knowledge of the context of my thoughts, like a bolt of lightning can’t appreciate its momentary grasp of dominance over an angry sky. Like an atom doesn’t appreciate the burden of the service it provides, like a poem doesn’t appreciate the metaphors woven purposefully between every line.

And how could I sleep at night knowing that a hurricane could slip into existence, tear its way through a village of innocents then ******* in an instant leaving no form of apology or reason?

This is the dilemma of owning a conscious mind in a world of impartiality.

And if you don’t mind, I’m going to divide this audience into two sides: those who are matured and wise, and when they look at the night sky, see those wrinkles reflected in their own eyes – and those who are young and naïve, to whom this insight may come as a surprise.

To the wise and mature, I assure you that we are all in fact slowly dying. The only reason you’re alive is through generations of successful breeding and surviving. God is dead, and love is a chemical compound produced in your head.

And to the young and naïve, I’ll leave you with this line: despite the pessimistic undertones this poem implies, if you just don’t worry, you’ll turn out just fine.
I will now write all my poetry in pros as I feel like it leaves more freedom for my presentation.
Naomi Sep 2018
Beauty in a bottled ship is sent to a bottled man.
Hurry in a speeding train is sent to a timer.
Loneliness in a creeping plane is sent to a grave digger.
Roses in a colourful base are sent to a dead man.
Words from a love poem are sent to a fearless man.
Tears from the sea are sent to a child.
Ashes from a burned soul are sent to a jew.
Maps from a traveler are sent to a paralysed boy.
Stars from an astronaut are sent to a blind man.
Kwa Jul 2018
Inside the bottle are the voices.
Trapped and confined, 
she covered her ears and her eyes. 
Paralysed by the silent voices, 
she could only cry.

There she is,
just sitting there.
With her knees to her chin,
and her head down,
waiting for someone to hear her cry.
This is a poem about how we get haunted by the voices in our heads.
Kate Copeland Mar 2019
In a sudden silly moment
of madness
she thought she should
be able to tell the truth to
the one she loves
Flat on the table
a loud bang, his cup
jumping up from its saucer  
rolling off away
He had no intention to go
and she was paralysed anyway
like she is and always will be
when someone's so so mad.
Javanne Dec 2018
There's something
Strange happening
I feel
A storm within my bones
Like Fire gelded by tongs
Thunder and lightning crashes my home
Turning it to ash that blows over yonder

But I feel at ease
None of these things are stopping me
I am paralysed with dread, I admit
But I'm not about to forfeit or
That this is what I wanted

I summoned the devil
and he delivered
So now I must react
And deliver everything back
Ten times better
The prompt for this was "Challenged" So here's hoping this conveys some type of challenge To hear it read:
Kirsty Mar 2019
The sickness that plagues your thoughts at night
Blinds your rational thinking
Battling between what is reality and fiction
It holds you captive in that black hole

Your chest compressed unable to move
Wide eyed you lay paralysed
You will the beast to leave at dawn
Only to return when the curtains are drawn
Astrid Jul 2019

On the floor in the dark room,
The occasional lightbulb flicker
Brings some hope back to my blue-glazed eyes,
But it's a mere distraction.

I imagine that the lightbulb can see;
Awake when it's shining,
Otherwise asleep.
In the light I seem free,
My body moves. My voice, it speaks,
Speaks like the one it once belonged to,
Before the locked room lost its key.

The bulb will never see
The ******* the ground,
Or the shelves that collapse
Silently, as tears tie her down.

So why am I surprised,
That the lightbulb never stays?
Through its eyes, the room is a palace
With a princess, troubles seemingly erased.
How would it know of the dungeon
That is formed where she lays?

Darkness, once more.
Flor Dec 2018
She woke up from her deep sleep
Finally back from a long trip
She looked around but found none
In panic she ran

But it seems that the road was endless
And she was alone and friendless
So she stopped and stood still
Thinking if this was real

That’s when she realised
She’s no longer paralysed
There she goes already up in her feet
All this is true, without deceit

She tries to remember,
What happened last December
Alas she could not
Her thoughts jumbled in knot

What was even the day?
Her mind hazy and grey
She remembers Christmas
And after that the sickness

She tries to recall
Until she can finally remember all
The moment she took her last breath
And was taken by death.
John Bartholomew Jul 2018
Since I became paralysed I've lost the will to use it
My instinct, my never say never, my last minute don't give a ****,
now just a gurgle in a draining sink

I'd say to the wife, let's stay here, book a room, a night of passion,
not a care in the drop of a beat
Now I must pre-book, distinctly decide,
accessible doors and not to forget the supps, the **** and an inco sheet

The cage maybe open but the beast is still asleep,
only awoken by a blue pill for the night
A reliance now dependant on who signs the scribble,
paid for by the NHS and who's not feeling to tight

Are there steps and is it really going to be worth it
the struggle, the helping out and sometimes feeling like a useless ***
OK, so its not really that bad
I just emphasis the crap points that sometimes make me sad

But its a new way of life you really had better believe
to have back what I had before, yes I often do grieve
but there is no going back as it is what it is
keep your head up,
keep your heart strong and try and regain that lost fizz

I've seen many politicians paralyzed in the legs as myself, but I've seen more of them who were paralyzed in the head - George C. Wallace

People get in auto accidents, they're paralyzed for life. I got hurt worse getting married - Jake LaMotta

Some people are walking around with full use of their bodies and they're more paralyzed than I am - Christopher Reeve
SassyJ Dec 2018
The blinded windows are shreds of paralysed glass. That brokenness....the hunts beyond the borders of the savanna grass. There was time when I died unable to work out this bare shell uncovered. The thousands songs that replay uncreating the moulded monsters. As the roosters awaken the unravelling dusk. At times the skies are brighter, others your voice wander within the beat of my heart. Paralleled as we are, hands widths apart extended with eyelids that feed the light across the oceans horizon. Sometimes, you will never know or read the words that are the reason. Whilst the world was against us, fuelled to make us disappear. Darkness overcame the starry eyes with lies. Despite all, I hoped you would have stayed a little longer. The fire still burned as our heads held up on the waters..... and YES when I wake up in the morning it’s always alright. The static zone of the melodious rhythm sinks below the sole of my feet. Awaking such feeling of aliveness. Sometimes love never goes away and it lights even deeper......
Anna Dec 2018
7 hours of tears
An incessant cascade
Swollen eyes and pale face
Deep blue crescents carved
With blunt knives
By 1 hours sleep and
All functions cease because
You don't want me

When your 3am text shot me
It hit my spine and I was paralysed
The deepest layer of hell is ice
And that’s where my body resided
Agony spilling over into numbness
As infection set in
I stood in front of the tsunami of misery
And let it smash down on my head

I think it broke my skull
I keep finding fragments of me
On the shores of my subconscious
Trying to gently piece them together
Dedicated to the hunt and
Giving them everything
But they don’t want to come back
They say they need time

I wanted to care for you
Until you forgot how to be broken
But it was muscle memory for you
That didn't leave on whim
You had to break me too
Until I became the floor
Under your feet
That couldn't stop supporting you

I gave you my existence
But you gave me half
And I was still thirsty after
Half a glass of water
On a warm night
During passionate ***
But I'm even more parched
With the nothing I have now

Now I have to erase
Your dancing tiger eyes
Burning holes in mine
And talking
Late into the night
Until we hallucinated
And didn't know who we were talking to

I just want you to stop leaving
Over and over
Like you do in my dreams
A thought loop I can’t leave
And even now you’re gone
You still want to play
With the wound in my chest
Picking off the scab when it tries to heal

If you had nails
You'd dig them into my brain
But you chewed them all off
Leaving unsightly stumps
So you resort to other games
Touching me tenderly
Then pushing me away
I hope you’re having fun

We were only alive during the night
You were nocturnal
And I wished the day away
So I could fall into your arms
And admire the contrast
Of our hair and skin
Rich brown on milky white
Gold on black

The sun always anaesthetised you
As it peered into your room
Stealing your essence
Leaving you a demotivated husk
But the night gave it back
And I was always grateful
That I could have the real you then
I gave up my day for my nights with you

I’d wait through all the smoking
Watching you try to fill the void
Hunting for a way
To try and straighten out
All your vicious insecurities
Too scared to deal with them sober
But you never needed to be high
For me to love you

I want my nerves to register
Your teeth clamped on my bare skin,
Pressure around my neck
And hands on my hips.
Your touch snaking all over
My fragile body
With locked lips
And your soft hair under my fingers

You infiltrate every memory
Imprinting your half smile
Behind my eyelids
I can still feel your hands
The lines they traced
I wish they'd trace more
Something to sooth
The hole in my chest

Sunlight shines through the hole but
Even as its edges become less raw
It's still punched through my chest
My heart’s missing
I hope you have it
Because I’d like it back at some point
Maybe we can plant it in the hole
And fertilise it with new flesh

I wish I could make more memories
And lie in bed with you for hours
But you won’t let me
You’re tidal, pushing and pulling
Until I disintegrate
In your sea of indecision
I’ll do whatever you want me to
I just wish it didn’t make me so sad
Scarlett Oct 2018
I am assaulted with emotion at the notion of closing my eyes               
            my drunken blackouts are the only peace I seem to find     deprived of my liquid therapy I sink into my thoughts      
              ignoring atrocious reality brings no solace to a villain caught  

paralysed within myself calling out from my empty shell
              a stranger inhabits my skeleton but I'm yet to hear alarm bells
my identity's gone missing but all the poles are poster-less
                          suffocating on small talk I'm lost in exquisite sadness

do my eyes of infinite tragedy hold the same tone of desperation?
          dead detached peepers resemble marbles glossy from sedation
privately frantic for acknowledgment of my internal death
                        fearful you see my demise but see no value in my breath

                                                         ­                              5AM
           mother dearest placed me on the curb for a foreigners collection       unworthy of a garage sale I squat amongst the household rejections
       amidst disheveled furniture a crusty mop makes my acquaintance
I suppose the oppression of my despair made it less contagious

                                                     ­                                                          6AM
whoever claimed sunrises bring hope never tried stimulants
                the ***** smeared sky bears as much nausea as I implement
such is the tacky masochistic cycle of damnation
                                  give me my slice of death and pray I don't awaken

                                                                ­ whiskey
                                                                ­                                  as
                                                  my            ­   humanity
its 5 ******* am i have not slept nor have i slept for more than 2-4 hours for 6 days straight. my selfish mind wishes you to bare the weight of my thoughts and avoidance of said burdens. that or someone get me a drink, whisky on the rocks preferably.
SassyJ Jul 2018
I though he carried the light
where words would illuminate
driving me to a euphoric ******
a man without a face or a trace
unhindered in a double live and lies
a bubble of psychotic psychic surety
his passion was an addiction
my reservations moved a notch
addicted to a body of ideology
the stances of philosophical terms
uncovering ancient possibilities
the unfelt mysteries of history
veiled in icicles of pretence and lies
as if a Marxist, a closet bourgeoise
The stoicism of present bargains
questioning Socrates and morality reasons
a fatal dose ,examining the unexamined
as colourful as his mind blew my inner glow
he was lost in sad and low dialogues
afraid to face the earthly shallow shadows
yet his spirits moved deep within mine
and it paralysed and fed on my energy
and his delusion became my seduction
but he woke my inner poetic tongue
letting it caress all his inner wounds
A shadow hiding behind Frankenstein’s
a sly monster who lied to my eyes
ghosting in with the a pen that weakens
romancing with letters of a fiery doom
a penpal whom I met within my lowest
but whose words lay in a deep unending quarry
his warmth I could never ever tell
his kiss only a draft on the dewy grass
Warren Jun 2019
This is the story of Jeni Haynes, whose father inflicted horrific physical and ****** abuse on her from the age of four years old. As a result she created over 2000 alter egos to get her through it.
This is my account written with respect and love as  I feel she would tell it, just because some stories deserve a voice.

Dedicated to Symphony,
- For saving my life.

’I am an army,
A force of alter egos forged from the furnace of necessity.
Banded together in permanent transience,
Called forth by the voice purity.’
I am Symphony,
I’m 4
I came to Jeni first to comfort her through the pain,
Through the torture and torment of lamented youth,
I sang songs to mask the sounds of abuse,
Turned her face inwards,
Jeni found me because she needed me,
But I was not alone.
There’s Judas and Muscles,
There always here,
Alters of Jeni’s yesteryear
‘We are hundreds,
thousands - an army to face,
We’re her solace,
Some of us permanently echoing inside,
some of us hide,
Some of us have a singular purpose,
All of us have the same intention,
To protect our Jeni without exception.’
I am Jeni,
I have MPD  so they tell me,
DID is what it’s meant to be,
But I’m just me !
No one ever told me there shouldn’t be more,
Personalities and people behind the door,
So it’s perfectly normal inside my mind,
Just not what you would expect to find.

They call it abuse but it was way past that,
I cowered and cringed,
Paralysed with fear,
Praying he wouldn’t hear,
It was unavoidable,
I couldn’t prevent it,
I was incapable,
Cried myself dry,
It was torture,
Repeated and repeated and repeated,
Through every sense,
The smell, the taste, the feeling and the pain,
So much pain,
Then Symphony came and things changed.
She brought with her so many,
An army to protect me inside,
Where I could hide,
They took it in turns.
Little Rikki was laid with the task,
It would brake his heart apart,
Each time he would send someone in my place
To face the horrors of my father to face,

And they did suffer,
Every alter, every time,
They passed the poisoned chalice between themselves,
Not letting it near me,
Keeping me inwards so I couldn’t see,
Without their sacrifice,
I don’t know where I’d be.
Crazy maybe.

There was Jay who spoke truth,
Kept me in line all the time,
Tried to protect me,
Run Jeni run
But he couldn’t protect me,
It would always be done.

They weren’t in my head - they were me,
Every one you could see,
I would let them step forward,
They would fulfil their need and then they’d step back,
It’s as natural as that.
It’s survival,
My solution,
A forced evolution of spirit and mind,
I was forced to find.
I’m not ill,
I’m just different.
This is who I am.
I am Jeni Haynes,
We all are in a roundabout way.

I asked people to help,
Told those of rank,
Drew blank after blank,
I’d accused my father of horrific acts,
Given the facts it’s not a topic that attracts.
So it was on me.

I studied,
One day they would see,
I subjected myself to the learn to have power,
In words and knowledge,
These are the weapons of modern times,
And I needed them more than ever.
I studied  psychology, Justice and crime,
Then I tried again.
This time I spoke their language,
I broke their arguments and lay waste to their  fears.
This time they would listen,
And they did.

I am strong,
Battle worn and worthy,
I have power more than most,
I could withstand pain,
Rained upon me over years of suffering,
I had focus,
Honed from an army that knew where to look,
And I had help,
We were heard,
We won our day in court,
That man that called himself my father,
Extradited from his exile,
Brought forth to testify for the wrongs he’d committed.
My 2hrs in court validated my years of silent abuse.
We spoke individually with one voice,
No plan,
I let those with the answers take the stand,
6 came forward to help me beat the one,
And they did,
He confessed,
Finally my fight could be laid to rest.

This is my story,
*****, buggered and systematically abused,
This is my story,
Of Symphony finding me broken and bleeding,
This is my story,
Of waging war against my father,
This is my story,
Of taking back me.
All of me,
Every part of me,
Until finally - I could see.

Jeni Haynes,
“May you find the peace you deserve.”
10000 Lightyears Sep 2019
Six days of drinking,
partial insanity,
I drink ketamine,
and I slip from reality.

My eyes feel like they have sand in them,
my ears, mouth, nose, too.
oh ****...
they do.

Why am I paralysed?
Why can't I move?
I've been rolled up in a banner...
what the **** did I do?

On a beach in Cambodia,
thrown under a stage,
after I fell into a K-hole,
and emerged the next day.

The pain is too much,
I pass out willingly.
Wake up and I'm drowning...
Water is killing me.

I cling to the dive rack,
my strength starts to wane.
I try to scream help me,
Then I blackout again.

Wake up in a rowboat,
cooked by the sun,
Skin crimson and blistered,
what have I done?

My ankle's broken,
no wallet or phone,
I beg for a ride,
please just take me home.

The kind stranger helps me,
brings me to my hotel.
I swallow five ******
and escape from this hell.
Both feet on the floor and the reality of my day starts.

I didn’t think it was going to be one of those days.  I woke-up with so much energy, but then remember that you are not here.  Where the **** are you?  It has been like what, three months?   You have been gone for that long.  Three ******, long months.  

My legs are like molasses.  I take steps towards the bathroom, which seem to take me forever.  Finally I arrive, to bask in the bliss of my first morning ****.   I make my way to the kitchen, putting the kettle on, before turning-on my phone.  Yes!  I have messages from you.  But, it’s the same old, same old - you’re having a good time, meeting loads of people, seeing loads of things, blah, blah.  The standard *******.  But you still haven’t answered my question, “when are you coming back?  I miss you - things are lonely here without you **”.  I’ve asked it, over and over, with each message you send.  And each time, I get no response.

Today is Tuesday, Shrink-Tuesday.

I hate the guy.  Not the guy himself, I mustn’t over exaggerate.  What I really hate, is the idea of seeing a shrink.  I’m sure he’d be cool to go out and have a drink with, but as a shrink he *****.  All shrinks ****. I don’t even want to be here.  I already know what’s wrong with me.  This is the first time we’ve been apart in 15+ years and I’m feeling it, you know.   I’m really feeling it.  I miss you.  I tell the shrink that I’ve received messages from you.  I get that same flat look he always gives me.  Interested, but not so interested.  And each time, he asks me what you said, how I felt about it and what I replied.  But this time, I’ve brought the phone.  That excites him a little.  I can see it in his face.  He goes through the messages, and hands it back to me.  ‘So how does her response make you feel?’  I want to punch him right, bang in his gob.  The session’s over.  I ask when he thinks he’ll sign me off to get back to work.  I just need to something to do.  Something to occupy my time.  ‘We’ll see.  Let’s talk about it next week.’

Tuesday turns into Wednesday; Wednesday into Thursday, and days, into days, into days. My daily routine continues.  Wake, ****, coffee, check messages, remain idle.  Saturday rolls around.  Still no news from you.  I have the gruesome twosome over for a visit - your mother and my mother.  All they do is fuss, fuss, fuss.  I’m not sure why they don’t think that I can’t manage the house on my own?  I know you’ll be laughing at that when you read it. No really, they’re alright.  I must admit, I’ve had a rough couple of days, and I'm glad to have their company.  And, for the first time, I’m looking forward to Shrink-Tuesday.  I realise that I’m not coping.  I just need you back.  We go for a ride.  They both insist.  We stop-off for a quick bite to eat at Bernies Café (you love that place). With lunch finished, your mother wants to visit your father’s grave.  You know how much I hate cemeteries.

En route to the cemetery, and within twenty minutes we arrive.  I want to stay in the car, but those two wont’ have it.   ‘You came for fresh air.’  Fresh air yes; to walk among the dead, no - how creepy.  They mean well, so I acquiesce.  We arrive at your father’s grave.   Mum and I, our arms intertwined, watch as your mother, after sitting down on her portable chair, places fresh flowers on his grave.  Your mother is talking him, I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can still tell that she misses him.  Your mother’s done.  I am more than ready to leave.  As I turn to go, mum pulls me back, ‘Go on David, it would be such a waste if you didn’t say hello.’  I can hear your mum’s voice behind me ‘Hello Janine, we’ve come for a little visit.  And look who I have with me?  David.  David’s come to visit you’.  I hear your name, and I become paralysed.  I want to run but I am unable to move. Mum is now standing in front of me, and like a mother with her child, she takes me in her arms, and slowly turns me around.  My eyes are closed.  I don't want to see.  But I know they can't stay closed forever.  I open my eyes, and it’s there.  I can see it - the tombstone.  Mum’s holding onto me, and all I can hear is my silence. Silence and my tears.  There’s so much I want to say.  But I can’t.  It hurts so much, that I can’t speak.  And what could I say that I’ve not said in the past 3 months?  I miss you.  Things are so lonely here without you.  And I just want to know, when you’re coming back.
This is pushing the boudaries of prose poetry. But I had in my head and needed to tell it.
Johnny walker Mar 2019
There were times In my life I really believed that I'd never grow old, live
fast die young that's what
I thought It was supposed to be
but that was the rock and roll world and perhaps not really me as each year passed me by I thought if I'm not careful before I know
I'll be too old and no longer capable to make a decision to end my own life probably Sound Incredibly selfish but In
I had a fear becoming ill, I suffered Closter phobia I feared If become paralysed not being able to breath ending up In Iron lung
no longer being able to make my own decisions but that's all water under the bridge now because I'm 66 years old made to the retirement
looking back a lot of what I thought then so Important  seems now of very little concern just goes to show how much we change with
There was a time when I thought I'd never grow
old but as you get older your attitude to life changes
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