I’m lost with days
I just don’t know
If I should come
Or I should go
It’s been three days
Since I last slept
It’s clear my brain
Now seems inept
It’s floating now
a caffeine haze
Words in fog
Lips are twitching
Try to focus
All that fear
I know it’s stuck
Inside my head
But please I need
To go to bed.
He was never mine not really, not where it mattered.
For the most part, I am a shareholder. A greedy coveter grasping a ticket, a little piece of him that I believe is mine, until the next time. The next spin of the wheel, eagerly watching the bounce, wondering where the white ball will land, wondering if my time is near. Alas, lady luck was never a friend to me. And so shall he be, forever more on the move,free to roam to whichever ever table he pleases. I can but sit and watch agog whilst the women sigh and feign over him. My stomach knotting to see blood red fingertips brush his skin. My scorn rises as perfumed beauties fawn and blush to see him pass by, they even lean in to smell his sweet scent at times. my discontent clearly shown, I cannot help it.
He is not mine any more yet once he was and I am loathe to forget. The night we shared on the poker table, I recall the revelry in his caress. How I would pull him to my lips with each jubilant squeal. I remember the fire of anticipation before we touched, our first meeting of indecency, our indiscretion of sorts.
Our last meeting was so long ago yet still I yearn for you, still I sit and watch you work your magic on others, hoping one day your delights will come back to me. praying for a day you will return so I can love you better, and not let you slip so easily through my fingertips..
Over at Linda’s blog for the prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “egg.”
I had some train time without internet to kill so this prompt was a lovely thing to fill the gap, thank you Linda 🙂
What it the chicken of the egg that came first? Obviously those cunning folk among us know that the answer to this age old question is the egg. Ok,so it wasn’t a chicken egg, but a lizard or fish egg is still an egg never the less and why should they count of any less value. It reminds me of a poems I once read as a child and whilst I enjoyed the rhyme enjoy to remember it, I guess at the time that I never really understood it.
The codfish lays ten thousand eggs
The humble hen lays one
The codfish never cackles
to tell usewhat she’s done
But we all scorn the codfish
Whilst the humble hen we prize
Which only goes to show you that it pays to advertise
But isn’t it a great little poem and actually shines quite a truth on real life: those that shout the loudest do seem to get more out of life, whilst the quiet hard workers continue to strive on and get passed over. (walks away from the rant)
Now I remember this poem from a poetry book that I used to have as a young child, I can’t remember the book title or the poet and maybe even some of the words are incorrect but it is from an old memory. This isn’t the only poem I remember from being a child, which I think is testement to how poetry can really make an impact on people, or children even. I think it was the rhyme that made it stick, along with others such as Gerry the giraffe and Rhubarb Teb. Even the old Oliphant which I only found out as an adult came from a book: Tolkien – Lord of the Rings. When I think to myself of all the poems and song lyrics that I can remember it’s actually a fair amount of memory, yet I cannot seem to remember where I leave keys or recall conversations I have had the previous day: what’s with that?
Sometimes my mind draws such a blank on simple everyday things and I can’t work out how it can be so good for silly non important facts yet I can’t retain information that would be helpful. Perhaps my brain is just wired to prefer absorbing enjoyment rather than function.
So the prompt was egg right? *makes mental note to purchase Easter eggs in the sales to top up the chocolate supplies*
This isn’t working for me. Isn’t working in the setting of the sun or the waking of the dawn when the birds croak out a morning chorus to wake the tree. It isn’t working in the drops of the rain that fall in the middle of the night calling out names to people who can no longer hear them. It doesn’t work for me that every time I see a small glimpse of hope flickering between the pebbles and the cliff tops that you tell me it’s just an illusion that there is nothing really there: just maybe a firefly breathing his final breathe.
This no longer works for me
The soft insinuation that things will be ok, that I will be ok, at sometime and some point. The dull thudding in my heart when I hear what you don’t say and know that you couldn’t, only to be able to hear it ten times louder than any other constant noise. It’s the slow droning that nags my earlobes and pulls the despair out of my mind and onto the paper. That sheer expression of nonsensical love and what it means to have it, to recognise and hold onto it for dear life.
This isn’t working out for me
To be able to dance in the autumn light of a harvest moon but never truly taste the bounty. To steal a grape from the great cornucopia of life yet never be able to let it reach my lips and feel it’s cool skin pressed against mine. To allow the acorns to nestle in safe pockets of earth protected from harm yet never to see them rise into strong reliant Oaks. To never feel the rush of the wind filter through my hair yet watch it blow the leaves into submission. To have the sea air cling to my lips yet never allow my aching tongue to taste it.
The alarm screamed into her ears to wake her violently from her dream. An arm jutted out from under the sheets and aimlessly patted the side table in an effort to find the source of the noise. After a minute of useless fumbling the sheets were thrown off and she grabbed the clock with both hands, hitting it into quiet submission.
‘I hate you!’
She screamed at the clock as she slammed it to the floor. Stumbling into her slippers she cursed at the cold air and having to get up so early, she hated mornings anyway but Monday was always the worst. Grabbing her robe for warmth she made her way to the bathroom in a sleepy haze, luckily she managed to navigate the route on auto pilot most mornings.
Turning the tap on she pondered her tired face in the mirror as she waited for the water to heat up. Poking her tongue out at her reflection she thought about how nice it would be to just go back to sleep and ignore the world but she knew that wasn’t an option. So instead she splashed her face with tepid water until her eyes were fully open and brushed her teeth begrudgingly