a shitty poem

a shitty poem

It’s 3am in the city and I’m alone,
again,
in my apartment.
I don’t feel anything like a monster,
but when I look in the mirror
the shadow just won’t go away and
I can’t deny the way my soul splits right in two
the moment I look through the glass.
My heart feels too powerful and the
clutch in my throat won’t let me breathe
without endless whispers of
self-defeat.
I’m frightened to move,
but soon my hands are tighter
than they’ve ever been
around the plastic bottle that shouldn’t
have been there at all.
First there’s a spark,
then there’s light,
then I’m ten metres off the ground watching you tell me how
art doesn’t mean I can kill myself.
But isn’t that what art is;
a long, slow, played out death?
Bukowski never seemed alive to me,
so where’s my prostitute and
freedom to drink,
or is it different when you think
of me
because I’m somehow smaller
– more aware.
Or maybe it’s the awareness
that drove me forward and
maybe it’s time I stop pretending I’m anything
other than a shitty poem that empties the pockets
of dreamers.

– Charlotte Griffiths

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s