Reflections In The Bathroom Sink

Existing in limbo:

A non-life.

Caught between who I am,

And who I want to be.

This inaction plaguing me,

Like a storm that swirls nowhere,

But above my head.

* * * * *

Cut and bleeding —

Broken and bruised.

This heart has cried enough tears,

To rain for a thousand lifetimes.

It hurts, to breath,

When the air is laced with razor blades.

* * * * *

legs that drag behind me,

Like lead-weights,

(My dad would say,)

Carrying me from point A,

Back to point A again,

On a pointless loop that,

Never quite scales the alphabet.

* * * * *

Snakes and ladders, but,

I keep hitting the snake,

It’s venom setting fire to my blood.

Eyes set in blackened half-moon frames,

Bloodshot and strained,

Like diamonds yet to be excavated

From their carbon encasings.

* * * * *

A million thoughts per minute —

A real gas-guzzler —

An impractical engine.

The vehicle nobody can afford to run.

“Not a scratch, kid, not a scratch,

Bring her back in one piece,”

Only this car doesn’t get off the line—

Firing her up empties the tank.

And even if it didn’t,

The GPS is scrambled anyway.

* * * * *

A beast leashed only by its own lethargy.

Well fed, ready for bed,

“Here’s a steak now roar for the crowd,”

Like a dancing monkey,

Or a sea lion performing tricks for fish.

* * * * *

Skin cracking with age like ancient parchments,

What once was important enough to scribe,

Now left pinned up in its own corner of the world,

In an antique frame, perhaps,

Only for the interested to gaze upon.

Otherwise invisible,

Shrouded in shadow —

A relic of the past.

Ultimately empty,

Forgotten. Not needed,

A novelty for tourists to snap photos next to.

* * * * *

A ball in the garden,

Covered in mud and mould,

Kicked to the corner when it’s time to mow the lawn.

A dying chrysanthemum in the damp, cold earth,

Fit not even for the bees,

Shaded by growing evergreens,

In a pretty grove he won’t live to see.

Pollen harvested:

A husk of his former self.

The buzzing balls of fluff seeking new friends for their wealth.

* * * * *

An inconsistent poem that starts to rhyme,

An unknown author out of time.

No more thoughts there left to think,

Just rippled Reflections in the bathroom sink.

Definitely one for the upcoming collection: Fragments Of A Tortured Soul. Speaking of which, if you’re interested in more of my writing you should follow me, and click that little Facebook button below to stay up to date with my ramblings😊

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