She, comes rarely:
A heavy shadow – bills on bills on bills. The eye
Clicks an evil polaroid,
Of the lies I was comfortably told.

She, sits in my comfort zone,
The money-munching
philosopher, with her odd young folk – petty chameleons.
She breathes ghosts and the room thickens.

This is my house.
Now splotched thoughts – clumsy grey and blue paperclips
stick to the furniture; squelching boots
and books everywhere.

She, shrieks and bangs
In my quietude, she never makes the bed.
She whom I care for,
Yet she meddles with my head.

This quarell I’m having,
This grief – she brought with her bags on the way.
She’s in my mausoleum, my pouf;
The dust settles in every day.

The maid comes and cleans it away.
But her baggage won’t budge, the badgering
Starts: and comes the gaping hole in my heart.
Go away, go away, go away.

Can’t she be more like me – as i need?
Can’t she stop piercing holes,
I can’t afford pills and spills
Like the fear that leaks out, and the bills.

Here’s some rum to our grief.
I cannot help you glue your head
back into one piece:
can I give you some money instead?



ramblings on creativity, mental health and a malfunctioning society.

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