I’ve got ink stained fingers that
I never trained to hold a cigarette
I’ve learned that I’m happiest
when I have my bad ideas
and a universe of plans

I found it hard to be the subject
of care and of poetry, of attention
we all cope privately, excessively
I took my pills and my books with me
and I learnt that it wasn’t so easy

Violence infected my life from birth
and I found it harder to be a daughter
a friend, a lover, or a sister
but it doesn’t matter what is hard
for me, for the addict or the ‘writer’
give me plans and sanctuary, but
please don’t show care for me


Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s