‘Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.’ – T. S. Eliot
Sobbing in the pink glow
Sent from a buzzing sign: ‘SHOTS’;
The Raspberry Sours
Still tingling in my mouth,
Twinkling through my blood,
Tinkering with my conscience.
Like bleary smears in the teary outskirts
Of my view.
Lusty electro pop swelling in the speakers
To a dancing menagerie
Of liquored and lacquered peers.
Here I am, flopped on a bar stool
All made up and alone
Like a painted Russian doll,
Used and outgrown,
With another self inside.
The light from my phone
Haunting my cheek
As I cry like the bar banshee
To an empty ring tone.
23 times I tried to ring,
23 years I’d been suffering,
Told that men would ‘fall at my feet’,
Told that they’d ‘love me for me’.
But here were cigarette butts at my feet
And you loved me when I wasn’t me.