Sometimes, sometimes isn’t enough.
Sometimes the mistakes we make. The egos hit’s we take. The childish quips we make.
Those things said and done, The battles lost and won.
Each moment fraught with anxiety to alleviate the illusion of any hierarchy.
The idea of better and worse.
Times we love – those we curse.
Those times, those moments… those misdemeanors….
I’m gone plain history.
I can feel it in my bones already.
Drawn fluid like chalky milk, they won’t miss me I’m a different Ilk.
It’s that time of year again, seasonally affective – No D.
Apparently it’s all relative. Don’t make excuses for what’s subjective!
I’d paraphrase a negative portfolio with the centre stage of a grave to begin “Photodead..” My enthusiasms gone you can bury yourself instead.
I helped, changed, offered more before you reached this stage.
Too far gone, for you, for anyone.
History pages crispy,
Worn toad ink ridden, bloaty and whole heartedly coated in empathic residue.
Means the hate I feel’s not me – it’s you.
I feel your false starts, hiccups and broken hearts.
I rebuff their negativity with sarcasm humour and clarity but eventually… I’m human they get to me.
Everything has potential to be something unique and amazing but it’s gone to slide now and it’s hazy.
What could have been the first vision for that little baby, her first ambition to be like her uncle, maybe.
Instead is just crazy.
I’ll perform to the dutiful calm and do them no harm to show I’m unarmed as I fabricate peace to keep everyone warm.
Bit it won’t be the love that I had in my heard back from the start before you let it fall apart.
What you got for me? Where do I start?
© G.P Williamson 2017