Rough Maps – Poem

A very rough poem today – perhaps this will be a poem I’ll ‘show-my-working’ with. Just this minute finished writing it. Took me about half a hour (it’s that raw).

Rough Maps

On a quiet day
I can hear you breathing.
your footsteps in the hall.
The sound of the pages
you flick through
in the study.

There is no cavity
big enough for me
to crawl into.
I am fat with a disease
that I empty onto
others when I please.
But when do I please?
How do I know?
What do I know?
Except that jug that never
breaks. The meadow that always
rolls away into the trees.
That empty space
that sits within me.

What tortured youth we lead
when we had dreams.
The questions we opened
up to the horizon when hand
In hand are now exhausted.
the sun has set. We sit
in the dark waiting for a moon
that never rises. Watching
the sea rise and fall
like your chest when you slept.

What eagerness to blades?
And so exhausted when I wake…
all those days I thought
I knew but didn’t know;
those days you pretended
– one walking masquerade
I lived with; close to; as.
Sharing all our times either
meant nothing or something,
Never neither. Never.
and now we say things
and hide behind our words
because we can’t shoulder
our share of the blame.
Push our minds to bend
the rules of the world.
Throw our intellectual weight
behind those certain systems
we find attractive and ignore
what we really lost.

Reality. Realism. Be realistic.
All terms that died
with people that did fuck all
with their lives. People that killed
themselves by choosing to live
a system they had given
in too. People who ended
up not living, not loving,
but making-do like the housewife
and the office worker
that wanted to be a stage musician
or astronaut, but threw
in the towel before trying.

All we are is hope.
Hope exists. Hope persists.
But what is hope without action?

I am the man that sits in the cupboard.
The man that sits in the cupboard
and hugs himself to sleep
with cigarettes and cartons of orange juice.
Waiting for you to come
and open the door
because I don’t think I can do it myself
with these hands
that crumble like biscuits.

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