A poem.

Photo by Mohamed Nohassi on Unsplash

You don’t want vacant days
you don’t want to fall in love on vacant days
no really, you really don’t

This is what happens:
you sit around
as a dense, black fog of thought
engulfs you
strangles you
suffocates you
she’s all you can think about

while she’s out there
making hay
slaving away
it’s not ok
you seem ok
I’m not ok

It’s not a pretty feeling
not a pretty feeling
just sits in your stomach
and doesn’t move for days
doesn’t move for SHIT

stupid things
I want a tattoo of you
that’s what happens

that’s what happens.



Photo by Nathan Lindahl on Unsplash

I’d like to be back in the front seat
with you and Michael Kors
and all the things we shouldn’t do
but we did

this feeling represents an addiction to those moments
and depression when they’re gone

Your face looks different
when its only inches from mine
‘don’t waste my time’
hurts more on vacant, sunny Wednesdays

weaning myself off you
like heroin and the sting



A Poem

Photo by 🇸🇮 Janko Ferlič on Unsplash

I watch the world keep spinning
alarm clocks — that bugging chime
with poetry, I’m winning
it’s 24 degrees on melancholic Sundays

What’s most troublesome?
that slow fertility decline
a microwave meal for one
but no more wispy warm sunshine

Pressure, and ladder-strewn rat races
twenty-seven going under
tempts me to different, undesirable places
and a heart gets pulled asunder

So, you find something new to fill the void
ain’t life just a game of Jenga
while a distant suit sets the agenda
cocktails on the Thames cannot be the answer

You can block out society, but not the pain
so watch me run slowly out of time,
quarrelsome queens were slain
for a mindset still out of line
I’m outta time