Chaos. Of the petrol fuelled, metallic box kind.
A box-junction I should never have entered,
A crossroad blocked entirely by me,
They can’t know how sorry I am, I want to
apologise over and over until I’m hoarse and loathed.
An apology, rapidly becoming an apology for my entire existence.
Consciously paying rent to a world by trying
to be perfect, to make someone want me.
To make me feel I belong and am deserving.
And there’s a fly or two in the kitchen,
An erratic, stupid fly-er, panicking needlessly,
There’s a hot light which attracts it,
And with that it’s gone, burnt up.
I guess that could mean anything,
But I think that death cruel and needless.
An essay I can’t do,
The 50 hour workday week,
On the lowest of wages,
A desire for a summer job rapidly becoming a responsibility,
A frustration and a confidence knock.
Wanting to be good at something. That essay.
And I can’t breath,
If the light doesn’t kill,
The bleach will,
Intoxicated by ghastly fumes,
Intoxicated. I got drunk with you.
I wanted to do it again, but
I’m not invited and you never responded,
I don’t know what I did wrong but
I’m sorry, it was all my fault.
A formula 1 driver died.
25. That’s only 5 years older than me
and it makes me sad.
Because he was doing something
Something more than this.
But yet I live, while he does not.
And it’s not fair and it all reminds me of Karen.
Everything always comes back to her.
A girl I never knew.
If I could apologise for that I would too.
Because she was living and I was not.
I should have died for her, I wanted to.
Our city should have protected her.
So I sit here, listening to Bruce Springsteen covers,
Thinking of the lives taken while mine progressed.
To think I can live but not write. Write an essay.
So incapable, should have been me.
I’m sorry for making this about me. Again.