You wake up, reach so instinctively
for a glass of self-medication
as only you can, and still live

You thought it might solve everything
the move, I mean
that waking up to see the sea
was more important than fixing anything

Running was only the cure once
and no-one can live
as a body full of drugs

Being invisible, attention fading
is the worst thing

When you saw the sunset
from a small one-bed
did you still want to run?

Don’t tell me you didn’t
miss your pills, your bathroom cabinet

You are not kind, nor whole
you’re an empty, tar-black soul
bored to death, never an artist
true artists don’t die
don’t disappear when no-one is looking

The writer became a character

Look after yourself, dear
there’s years left
before you overdose
before you run away from here



Filed under Personal, Poetry

9 responses to “64.

  1. splendid expression of the self-medicated walking (running) wounded, unable to be any kind of artist. feel is so perfectly describes a large chunk of how i lived my life.

  2. Reblogged this on Grandmother Spider and commented:
    very good

  3. now you are hitting it hard. Good piece!

  4. This discomforts me a lot. And that’s good. Wonderful trail of thoughts.

  5. The feel 😍 such beautiful poetry

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