The Fear
It made a home in my bones,
This melancholy of mine,
Replaced the marrow with thick black sludge
Leaving me unable to move most days.
What a sight I make!
Three days without sleep
And I think I’ve gone insane−
I try at night, not to imagine my headstone
Cold in the ground,
They will bury me in white.
I searched for Nirvana in the smoke,
Lungs coughing up black tar,
As my mind goes finger painting
Over my wrists.
The smoke is a beacon,
A lighthouse full of fireflies,
Out of the darkness,
I might rise.
***
A Short Reflection of Her in the Hospital
You smiled because you had to
Cheek to cheek
Dimples showing
Dressing gown on in the middle
Of the day.
Like a mental patient-
Your mother would say.
You were.
Hair takes up most of the frame
Uncombed for days
Light streams the room.
It makes you uncomfortable.
We can see it on your face.
***
A Dramatisation of Running Half Way up Constitution Hill
You are determined to run
At least
Half way
Sweat dripping from brow
You’ve not run this hard since
Year nine
The bleep test
You dropped P.E as soon as possible
Two years of constant smoking
Nights out
Ending in kebab grease
Has taken its toll.
You are only a quarter of the
Way up
Sweat pouring
Wheezing breaths
Dramatic sighs
“The half way point, I see the bench!”
The bench has been seen.
Coughing
Spluttering
You collapse on the wood.
You made it.
You will walk the rest of the way up.
To the white picket fence with the sea below.
Your Welsh dream.
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