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(27-03-1995 / dublin)

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A dark babies home and mother.

I live in a dark house,
One window, divided into 4 small square coffins.
The curtains are black,
Just like the hole my soul sleeps in,
She's used to it there -familiarisation.
The walls laugh at me, yet not a laugh of a sweet child,
But almost the cry of a still born baby; silence in its loudest form.
The coldness of the tiles are hollow and make an echoing sound,
Can I fall down there?
Perhaps'there' lies my escape route.
It could lead me to china,
A baby handed into my arms,
They say the chinese give away their babies,
Mine was taken away from me,

The kettle boils and steam is raised,
It frightens me,
A train containing a horrid mouth and tongue,
Twisted and churned,
The hissing sound disturbs my heart,
Terrified of a kettle, don't be silly.
It is my pain,
Burning through my skin, blisters are raised too.
The eeriness of this house, makes me feel at home,
I like my dark home.
I like where I live.
Darkness I am familiar with.
It is my friend.

Submitted: Sunday, March 31, 2013


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