I ran away,
just to come back,
when I thought nobody was looking.
to sit by the sea,
in the middle of the night,
as the tide copies me,
running and returning too,
just to see if things feel any better,
when you finally escape.
if you’re followed by what you ran from.
I am followed,
by absurdly long,
run on sentences,
that don’t rhyme,
because I’m pretentious,
and a teacher told me once,
that I didn’t have to be like everyone else,
so I’m consumed with that,
along with complexes about my appearance,
and my destined destination.
I sent my lover a love letter,
from the shower,
because I was showered with suspicion,
that maybe he’d stop loving me,
because I’m just the kind of girl,
who can’t accept,
I am destined to be desirable,
and now I’m sounding like a Smiths song,
surrounded by shame,
at the fact that I’ve never felt proud
of who I ended up being.
Hang the poet,
she might enjoy it.
In the afternoon,
I watch a Prince,
outside a dungeon,
where I keep my heart,
but as you’ll know,
she’s gone missing,
and forcing me to smile a little too.
The pigeons show their gratitude,
by asking for more.
crowding his crown,
their mouths still full of food,
spitting seeds as they scream,
can I have some more?”
I can relate.
It’s Christmas soon,
and I have a complex about that too.
I meet the eye of every elegantly dressed tree,
saying “How do you do?”
to gift related anxiety,
as I journey through December,
waiting for it to be over.
I have a long list of wishes I want,
but my mum can’t get them on Amazon,
so I’m not sure I should say,
“Just get me a new face,
a competent government,
and an end to the ache
of being unsure of where my life is going.”
nobody invites Debbie Downer back for New Year,
even if they gave birth to her.
I have waited for the life I have,
and the life that I see in the horizon,
for as long as I have been alive,
every time I get a hit of happiness,
I am back in the gutter,
back at it again,
with eyes full of wonder,
watching pigeons pester strangers,
for more of the same,
as I smoke a cigarette,
expelling smoke rings and regret,
over nothing in particular.