A bleak, black, endless expanse
A shifting mass of sand and tar.
It sits there, always there,
never far.
It is inside all of us; it swallows everything
like a black hole devours even light.
A well that can never be filled
A hunger that leads to our plight.
We see it everyday, governing our world
from the shadows - watching and waiting.
It stalks us like a lion stalks a deer,
ready to pounce as soon as we give way.
We give way when our hearts let in the darkness,
the refusal to believe in other human beings as kind and real people.
It is like a grave we have dug
for ourselves, a grave made
out of forgotten but unforgiven heartbreaks and amply overused ashtrays.
It is that armour which we wear to
ward off emotions, that misusage of
our soul akin to mending a bullet wound
with a bandaid.
It is the hunger felt by the stress-eater,
It is the feeling of disgust felt by the bulimic.
It is the beatings from parents or siblings,
It is the rationalisations and the excuses by the victims.
It is the space which is left
After a part of us dies along with someone else.
It is the trauma, the fear - the void
IS, and always will be, here.
And it's terrifying.
Sunday hangover poetry.
