Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Blinded By The Light

I used to dream about the sea,

waiting for the waves to wash my days away,

but I’m too tired to dream,

I close my eyes,

and there is nothing.

They say I’m bleak,

as if the world hasn’t grown slower,

and lost its colour,

as I grew taller.

Maybe I’ve been bleak,

for so long,

that it has grown on me,

like moss and weeds,

a terror attack here,

an anxiety attack there,

the economy and I,

are apathetic,

crumbling,

climbing from the depths,

then crumbling back down again.

I can’t even picture a house anymore,

there used to be babies,

but now they are cats,

in a house,

that shrunk down to a flat,

and I’m still not sure,

if my hopes are low enough,

to avoid being decapitated,

by the rages of reality.

Tonty Blair,

put a dream in my head,

with his vaccines,

and funded schools,

but sometimes,

dreams get delayed,

and sometimes,

they get murdered.

I used to dream about the sea,

waiting to wake up without wanting to run away,

but I never quite got there,

pacing empty, echoing pavements.

I want to be one of those kids,

who found their way out of Thatcher’s Britain,

with a playlist,

that brought the streets back to life.

I want to hear a way out,

a way to escape,

but it always evades me,

because life isn’t a movie,

(I know, I know),

and it just goes on,

unsatisfying and terrifying as it always was.

Thatcher’s dead,

still haunting the country she said she loved,

my bootstraps have told me to fuck off,

and let them sleep,

but all we have is each other,

and life isn’t a movie,

or a Springsteen song,

it’s just a thing that happens,

when two people meet,

lose control,

and then expect the result to survive.

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful,

sometimes,

I enjoy being alive,

but sometimes,

it feels like a burden I don’t deserve,

and it’s hard to articulate that,

without being sectioned.

I suppose I survived,

so far,

so what?

It’s just dumb luck,

and I’m a dumb girl,

who’s been on an endless ghost train.

Life isn’t a movie,

it’s not a Springsteen song,

it’s a haunted house,

full of a hunted generation,

that knows nothing but being overwhelmed,

on a constant basis,

as wars break out,

as often as our skin used to,

and our future funds tanks and missiles.

I miss when I didn’t know about the news.

I miss when life did feel like a movie,

or a song,

by anyone.

I miss when my only worry,

was if I’d ever kiss a boy,

and why I wanted to kiss girls too.

I miss when I could say tomorrow would be better,

without the sound of bitter,

jaded laughter,

in the back of my mind,

that refuses to believe.

I can’t press pause,

and take a breath,

I can only take it as it comes,

and try not to romanticise death,

because I have to be here for a reason,

I just don’t know what it is.

Nothing happens, just because.

I didn’t happen, just because.

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