Psoriasis Sky

Dandruff world, all soft and white
you keep commuters
from their bed at night

Delicate flakes, cold and clear
land on eyelashes
make mascara tears

When white drops pretty and pure
make traffic slide
across concrete floor

then does that which caused a thud
stay quite so white
or run red with blood?

Soft pale stuff are all your sins
always forgiven
for beneath you is spring?

As kids create with cold hands
cocaine canons to
pelt at every man;

I know spring brings warmer days
but through all the snow
seems so far away

Sunday Afternoon

When sadness and anxiety
are pushing down on me,
and I am gasping for air
it seems so utterly unfair
because it makes no sense:
it only makes me tense.
I wish that people could know
this is more than feeling low.

This curse
is so much worse
than worry and despair,
a head of unwashed hair,
inertia and grey skies,
cries, sighs and wet eyes.
Because it’s all this and more
and I can’t find a cure

***

It is:

Every mistake I’ve made
remembered and replayed;
every person who disliked me
behind the eyes of all I see;
guilt of the very worst kind
tormenting my tired mind;
everything in the world so bad
invading all my thoughts so sad.

At its best it is vile
making everything futile.
At its worst can make me begin
to want to claw off my own skin
as sheer panic of existence
wears down my resistance,
and terror, shame and sorrow
make me fearful of tomorrow.

I feel defined by angst and fear,
failure and pain so severe
I want to die; instead I cry,
yet when someone asks me why,
‘I’m tired’ I say, ‘just tired today.’
And they shake their heads and walk away,
imagining with some disdain
that I’m just sad about the rain

‘She’s melancholy- what a bore!
She wants to count her blessings more.’
If they only understood
I know I should, I wish I could
make my stupid brain behave.
These thoughts to which it is a slave
being impossible to explain
are forever labelled as ‘insane’

And yet this word
is so absurd:
too interesting, too ‘Jane Eyre’,
too Hollywood to describe despair,
isolation, guilt, and grief
anxiety, my mind’s cruel thief!
mental torture, thought’s recession
this is what they call ‘depression’

Birdsong

As the lights go off
my mind turns on
and the day’s fatigue
is suddenly gone.
My eyes feel sore,
my limbs wilt like flowers,
but I lie wide awake
counting the hours.
Tick Tock. Rustle. Creak
I think thoughts
I’ll never speak
Did I turn my phone off?
What will I eat tomorrow?
Will he return the DVD
That I let him borrow?

My head aches,
the thoughts go round
interrupted, at last, by sound.
Lying helpless in my bed
I realise night is gone
as I hear the noise I dread:
morning’s first birdsong.
Through the curtain I see
an early ray of light
I want to howl as I lament
another sleepless night.

Confessions

I like the glugg glugg of red wine being poured,
the clipp clopp of the boots that I couldn't afford,
the smell of cigars on men's winter jackets,
eating handfuls of Ricicles straight from the packet.

I sleep in the sun with no sunscreen on
and buy slimming tablets though I know they're a con,
don't iron my clothes and I drink juice from the carton.
I've got no savings and I like Dolly Parton

I spend time on Facebook but don't finish Persuasion,
eat too much salt and I smoke on occasion,
messed up my finals because I didn't revise,
whinge to my mum but don't take her advice,

don't practice the piano though I said I would,
never go running though I really should.
I hate seeing the Doctor and watching the news
and I buy a new handbag when I have the blues.

I get really cross about things that aren't fair
and worry so much that I pull out my hair.
I can't get to sleep and then I can't wake up,
I blow dry my hair and I wear lots of makeup.

I get disillusioned with daily drudge.
I don't lose my temper but I can hold a grudge.
I listen to music which I know makes me cry
and often exaggerate, though I rarely lie

I use the hard sponge on pans that are non-stick
and confess all my sins even though I'm not Catholic.
I criticise colleagues when they are shirking
then write silly poems when I should be working.

The Window

Look not through the window
at the view that you see
The view may be lovely
but the window is me

Feet!

because I just love to to walk.

On woolly jumper winter walks
Or breezy summer strolls
Our feet bear our weight like soldiers
As we wear out our souls but not our soles

Unrelenting and supporting
Halted only by our own laze
Feet are our friend from birth to the end
As we potter out our days

While smooth and pretty when youthful
They grow hard and ugly with age
But the more dead skin, the more beauty within
Like the wrinkled but wise old sage

And in the autumn of your years
If you still have a spring in your stride
You can be sure to smile out at the world
Showing all you have nothing to hide

So as you dance though life be thankful
And tell everyone that you meet
Age and heartache, thunder and rain
Are nothing if you still have your feet

Poem for a friend

I wrote this for someone a few months ago.

Yesterday life’s tapestry was written in silken thread
All fresh greens and blues and sunset red
Today you’re tired of the daily drudge
Now it’s an ugly black, greyish sludge

Your beautiful tapestry is all in tatters
With drop stitches and footprints over what matters
I know you’re questioning what it’s all for
I wish I could tell you, but I’m not really sure

But I know how you feel, so what I advise
Is to look again with less tired eyes
Between the holes and the surface grime
Are the sweet arabesques, unyielding to time

So go on and cry, it doesn’t make you mad
We can’t feel happy if we never feel sad
You feel the depression that this time derives
But you still weave joy through other’s lives

You possess the same talents you had yesterday
Your outer hope’s missing but your inner remains
The fears you have now, you’ll still have tomorrow
But they won’t seem so bad, you won’t feel such sorrow

I can’t promise you you’ll never feel sad again
It will work out one day, I just don’t know when
And I can’t predict the path your pattern will lead
But I can help patch things up, whenever you need

Spring Promises

A silk breeze
From an azure sky
Cools my skin
It tends my wounds

I no longer cry
Mascara tears
Of gothic pain

Bluebells make me
Forget the flowers
You bought me
Are now dead

Spring promises
What winter denied:
Forgiveness
Now I breathe free