Drowning just a little,
when the night comes down on me,
due on stage in fifteen,
downing drinks, injecting dreams.
My veins have always been clean,
but my soul would beg to differ.
I’ve seen the demons,
hanging on the arms of my reflection,
as I try to look past the mirror and avoid my own eyes.
Life is what you make it,
and sometimes I make a right mess,
collapsing by the orchestra,
singing the encore from the floor.
(It’s always A View From The Bridge,
because I think that if I cry,
I will become human,
and I always cry,
because the bridge has been demolished.)
One of my many mothers once said,
“A woman is incomplete
when she’s not in love”
and I understood,
as I searched,
so feverishly for you,
in a clamouring crowd.
You keep me upright.
Keep me manifesting my next magnum opus,
keep me on the Earth,
when the night threatens to take me from you.
I think I’m tired of being a tragedy,
but I don’t know how to be anything else,
so I live, out of spite,
laugh, at my own misfortune,
because I’m complicated,
but complete when I do.