3am Wanderings and Wonderings

End of day, soft pillow, warm quilt
Heater on high, empty room
Out-back courtyard, moon bright, stone hard
Goosebumps in post-midnight gloom

Eyes wide, can't sleep, struggling to unwind
Cold air, cold heart
Bare legs, smoke curls, once neat hair unfurls
Inside, fall apart

Orange light, stubbed out
Long night, no doubt

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Family get-together (and getaway as quickly as possible)

It's the family Christmas party And everyone's gathered around A chance to praise the family smarties The rest go drink another round My great aunt's still talking, droning on Showing no signs of wearying or dropping The babies start screaming, one by one Shushed by mums, but not completely stopping Eyeing up games, not monopoly, we're not mad Even my Nana's sneaked out back for a fag The food's been scoffed, mostly by my dad We've been here an hour, it feels like a drag At last I remember, as I'm on my umpteenth beer This is why we go through this just the once a year

Insecurity

Would you consider it greedy To ache for all that brightness Missing that exquisite feeling The one of belonging and rightness It's strange to yearn for crowded rooms For so many lilts and tones But jarring is this silence now Greyness, evenings spent alone Spent are my limbs and lungs A rest from the fight is blessed Alas the lack of friends I made Leaves my heart put to the test And perhaps it's just a drama Withdrawal from my high of glee Now my soul is left unsatisfied It makes no sense to you, but me And no man is an island I've heard it said once or twice Before, not knowing any difference Now here a drowning vice But may I still cling on to hope That the door is still half open Some of you may remember me Have enjoyed the words we've spoken And mayhaps, tis the darkness Whispers words against new friends That perhaps what has been started It has yet to meet its ends

Mortality

A teardrop to a summer storm Or more a truck stop to a driver I do not know which one I was My hope is that I'll be neither A petal on a dying rose Or its bush's prickly thorns Either evergreen and unwanted Or finite despite who mourns It's hard to see what's pencil And what is written in ink I know that I'm indelible Or at least that's what I think To depart and leave behind Naught but a ghost of joy and pain I'll work until I'm deadly sure Something of me will remain

wordsandwords

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