I wanted to write rhyming poetry,
but realise I have no rhythm.
The Ring
This message was deleted
That was the last thing I read from you. Having come home to find nothing of you left, besides your ring on the kitchen table. I sat at that table for sometime, before deciding to write you a simple one-worded message, ‘Why?’ This message was deleted, was the response. Deleted? How can you delete a memory? How can years be simply, deleted? That ring sat on the kitchen table, in the same spot, for exactly three months, with hope that its orignal owner would come back to claim it.
Three months and one day later, I decide to call your bluff. I take my ring off, placing it side by side to yours, and go to work. On my way home, there is an excitement and anticipation that I have not felt for some time. I rush to put the key in the door. And as I turn the lock, I expect something new, something different, some kind of change. But the truth, still remains the truth. There the two rings sit. Side-by-side.
We see each other out and about, neither one acknowledging the other. Each time, walking in our separate ways – which is exactly how it should be. I have no bad feelings towards you. None. Time, as they say, does heal wounds – old and new. And you know what? I still wear my ring, taking it off only and when I sit down at the kitchen table.
Trapped
Some days I think I’m going to achieve such greatness –
then I eventually realise that it’s just trapped wind.
BoxedIn
Thinking outside the box,
is not necessary,
if you refuse to go in it.
Toxic Waste
I had a dream that my lungs filled with toxic waste called air.
Each inhale becoming at last, an exhale.
An inhale, becoming my last
exhale.
Time Wasted
I’m running out of time,
with another day wasted,
fully aware, that this has all been one big flop.
I just didn’t know how to get to you.
And, my biggest regret?
I will never know what it was like,
to kiss those lips.
The Circle
When I let my stubbornness and individuality get the better of me,
I always say, next time will be different…
but then my stubbornness and individuality get the better of me.
The Metamorphosis
Opening his mouth,
letting his words pour out,
he went from extraordinary,
to extra ordinary.
Come Home
Both feet on the floor and the reality of my day starts.
I didn’t think it was going to be one of those days. I woke-up with so much energy, but then remember that you are not here. Where the fuck are you? It has been like what, three months? You have been gone for that long. Three bloody, long months.
My legs are like molasses. I take steps towards the bathroom, which seem to take me forever. Finally I arrive, to bask in the bliss of my first morning piss. I make my way to the kitchen, putting the kettle on, before turning-on my phone. Yes! I have messages from you. But, it’s the same old, same old – you’re having a good time, meeting loads of people, seeing loads of things, blah, blah. The standard bullshit. But you still haven’t answered my question, “when are you coming back? I miss you – things are lonely here without you xx”. I’ve asked it, over and over, with each message you send. And each time, I get no response.
Today is Tuesday, Shrink-Tuesday.
I hate the guy. Not the guy himself, I mustn’t over exaggerate. What I really hate, is the idea of seeing a shrink. I’m sure he’d be cool to go out and have a drink with, but as a shrink he sucks. All shrinks suck. I don’t even want to be here. I already know what’s wrong with me. This is the first time we’ve been apart in 15+ years and I’m feeling it, you know. I’m really feeling it. I miss you. I tell the shrink that I’ve received messages from you. I get that same flat look he always gives me. Interested, but not so interested. And each time, he asks me what you said, how I felt about it and what I replied. But this time, I’ve brought the phone. That excites him a little, I can see it in his face. He goes through the messages, and hands it back to me. ‘So how does her response make you feel?’ I want to punch him right, bang in his gob. The session’s over. I ask when he thinks he’ll sign me off to get back to work. I just need to something to do. Something to occupy my time. ‘We’ll see. Let’s talk about it next week.’
Tuesday turns into Wednesday; Wednesday into Thursday, and days, into days, into days. My daily routine continues. Wake, piss, coffee, check messages, remain idle. Saturday rolls around. Still no news from you. I have the gruesome twosome over for a visit – your mother and my mother. All they do is fuss, fuss, fuss. I’m not sure why they don’t think that I can’t manage the house on my own? I know you’ll be laughing at that when you read it. No really, they’re alright. I must admit, I’ve had a rough couple of days, and I’m glad to have their company. And, for the first time, I’m looking forward to Shrink-Tuesday. I realise that I’m not coping. I just need you back. We go for a ride. They both insist. We stop-off for a quick bite to eat at Bernies Café (you love that place). With lunch finished, your mother wants to visit your father’s grave. You know how much I hate cemeteries.
En route to the cemetery, and within twenty minutes we arrive. I want to stay in the car, but those two wont’ have it. ‘You came for fresh air.’ Fresh air yes; to walk among the dead, no – how creepy. They mean well, so I acquiesce. We arrive at your father’s grave. Mum and I, our arms intertwined, watch as your mother, after sitting down on her portable chair, places fresh flowers on his grave. Your mother is talking him, I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can still tell that she misses him. Your mother’s done. I am more than ready to leave. As I turn to go, mum pulls me back, ‘Go on David, it would be such a waste if you didn’t say hello.’ I can hear your mum’s voice behind me ‘Hello Janine, we’ve come for a little visit. And look who I have with me? David. David’s come to visit you’. I hear your name, and I become paralysed. I want to run but I am unable to move. Mum is now standing in front of me, and like a mother with her child, she takes me in her arms, and slowly turns me around. My eyes are closed. I don’t want to see. But I know they can’t stay closed forever. I open my eyes, and it’s there. I can see it – the tombstone. Mum’s holding onto me, and all I can hear is my silence. Silence and my tears. There’s so much I want to say. But I can’t. It hurts so much, that I can’t speak. And what could I say that I’ve not said in the past 3 months? I miss you. Things are so lonely here without you. And I just want to know, when you’re coming back.
The Clock Will Run Out
Stop!
The clock will run out.
Tick-stop, toc-stop!
The clock will run out.
Minute-by-minute,
hour-by-hour,
days, weeks, months.
Stop!
The clock will run out.
Every beginning has its ending.
Every ending leading to a
Stop!
The clock
will run
out.
Tick…tick…
tick…tick…tic…k
Stop!
Toc…toc…toc…
to…c
Stop!
The clock will run….STOP!