You don’t know
I put my head in my hands.
A feeling beyond the looks that pierce through ten a.m,
to the hours I spend too long
looking
at the starched collarsthat are beyond reach
of an
XX.
Slathering expectation.
I see the let down
let down by the difference in forthright and
downright unnecessary expectationbecause I sense next steps
And there’s trepidation in the unknown.
Frowning.
This is too much for the episode.Enjoy.
It always looks the same
I crawl greys and blues,
tucking the drone of morning between chains
to knock a hope
that fizzles under day.
Hit me.
Let me catch your breath.
I brush the need you’ve never know.
Show me faces in glasses
in passing -
it’s flames in smoke
in a vacuum of choking predictions
and I close my eyes to space
because it’s a new place.
In the quiet of voices I sit,
and we know deeper -
a presence in the glass-lined shelves
and they’re bottles of lost time
and lost sentiments
and it looks feebly above the voices.
I took one.
I’ll sit in an intonation of
carefree but you won’t see me.
I reach to the space but
it’s just a tremor
beneath a laughter of form that eases through hallways
and past the shards.
And I’ll take that, too.
Being 27 and still mentally ill enough for it to affect your job but not having enough money to sort yourself out is well ace innit.