a shitty poem
It’s 3am in the city and I’m alone,
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
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
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
– Charlotte Griffiths