Poems for the Sad and Weary

The Oil of Wishes

If I could press the fast-forward button,

I would zoom past the filmy white images

Of nothingness, overlapping one another,

Blank, empty black torn pages

From this tragedy. I think people romanticize pain

Because there is really nothing else you can do about it

But sit it out, wait for the poison to drip

Slowly out of the system till you're deem fit

To enter civilization but stay on the edge of fantasy

Because too much reality will send you back paces

To square one, dreams ripped apart with what-ifs and maybes

And colours and light and familiar faces.

Pain isn't pretty, no matter how hard I try to paint

Canvases out of the oil of wishes because there is no base,

Nothing to hold onto, nothing to sketch,

Nothing edible enough to bring to taste

And pain isn't just a stab through your heart. Pain is

Empty days spent wondering why you cannot escape

The muddled fog of the sky, the slimy tendrils of the past,

Empty nights staying up just to wait.

When I write, I try to spare my heroine

The emptiness but alas, as empty as pain can be,

There are also rash decisions, bad plans and sections of sobriety

And days and days of crying

And nights and nights of writing

And screaming at the ghosts in your mind,

The sound of your lips wishing to be fine

And maybe some days, everything seems okay

But the next, it's a muddled mess of a spoilt rotten cake

And there is nothing pretty in this. Nothing at all.

Nothing until you start to fall.

And sometimes, if we're lucky, we get out alright,

With scars, and stitches and the pain as a memory

And sometimes, we don't but it's okay.

We just go through the same cycle until one day, we find a way.