I don’t wanna be stuck in a routine,
a Houdini who never escaped
and suffocated over seven decades.
What a way to go, eh?
What a waste!
I’d rather be kicked in the balls than live in a world that I hate
and be convinced by the rest of the world that I made it.
I’d rather be licking the walls to see how it tastes.
It tastes real — like damp and wallpaper paste.
As it peels and it fades — I see faces staring out at me crazed.
I’ve made friends with my demons,
gone on weekends with my demons
and then pretend to the world I can’t see them,
‘coz self loathing isn’t trending this season.
I see an ocean of chaos and wanna join in!
I won’t be the man who shuffles his feet,
so sick of the street that he tries to wear it completely,
bit by bit, slab by slab, brick by brick.
I’ll smash it to pieces to prove I exist!
With the nervousness of a first kiss,
I overshare as thoughts surface,
no inner narrative I blurt this,
search for clarity through the murk, it’s
only a matter of time before something of worth emerges.
Open my eyes, I’m in my thirties,
I’ve got blood on my shirt, please
tell me you’ll never hurt me again
in empty verse, these
glib, turgid, big words
we rehearse – merge
as lip service.
more by Lucas Howard
photograph by Jez Timms