Strange world we live in.
Lovers who don’t love.
Carers who don’t care and workers that don’t work.
At least friendships still end and relationships still sink.
When half of the right side of wrong is still innacurate I’ll be proud to remain indecisive.
Empty like an anorexic’s death rattle.
As remorseful as that comment makes me I am subdued by the lack of loss and gain.
Pleasure and pain.
Again and again as the whole damn thing just stays the same around and around furiously, oscillating like there’s no beginning.
There was, we were and at least at one time we could have been.
Perhaps I could be beaten into a new shape. moulded to a new pulp, a form
to be strangulated into the being you used to want.
The being you made an effort for.
You dance on an empty stage for an empty audience who’s lost the passion.
Lost the desire to applaud your nakedness.
There I stand bored with flesh.
We both know I’d of died for you.
Perhaps I already did.
I could never read the words etched upon my coffin lid.
We can’t save to travel because we need sweets, crisps, bow ties, pretty stickers, another million glasses and the latest craze to add to the abundance of endless, useless shit we already drown in.
Falling beneath masses of junk and dust, no space, no air, not free, I’m crushed.
Squared a thousand fold into manipulatable parts, things that fit anywhere, don’t hold opinions nor have rights, don’t question wrongs and don’t fight.
Hollow blocks you love like vases where roses stand.
Stood straight, pretty and on demand.
None of these things I had planned.
Upto my neck, contained in a flood surrounded by pricks with slow trickling blood.
“Daddy” shouts a girl and away trickles my world.
It swirls and cascades into a smokeless pearl.
The whites of her eyes, clear to see.
Her looks from her mum and her mind is from me.
I smile and continue playing “write with me” and I wonder,
I wonder how much does she see?
© G.P Williamson 2017