White Fists…

Sometimes the white fists of old
pound relentlessly upon my door.
I offer them nothing outside a life’s long; silent loathing.
– To speak
would recognize another days
dark rhythmic hate.

They appall me
The self invited who long outstayed
their NO reservations vacation.
My eyes rebellious in resistance –
arms outspread pushing back the distance.

Turning the key in the ignition,
I fail over and over again to kick start
this cold flat mornings birth.
Fucked between all negative and the positive.
Tell me some more lies
about my so called intimate friends
It stops me thinking myself completely alone…


Poppy July 2013 ~xx~


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