A poem: Rusting Gold

I wrote a new poem this evening, that – as always – I would feel better if I shared.

Sometimes, we all do bad things. We know they are bad, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we stop doing them. This poem is about the feeling created by the knowledge you are doing something bad twinned with the realisation you don’t want to stop doing it – no matter what you destroy.

This feeling is not a nice one, particularly when it means you can feel yourself spoiling from the inside out, and all your principles – the ones you thought were solid – seem to dissolve in a single moment, irretrievable: even if you dust them off and try to start again, they’ll never be quite as shiny.

Feedback, as ever, received like a legal high.

Rusting Gold.

When I think of you,
I wear a rotten smile that cuts into my cheeks,
All sound becomes cloudy,
And my insides churn until they form soft peaks.
I write contrived rhymes
and wince at all the fakery rusting gold.
I’ve lost noble words,
You took the black and white, and hid the mould.

Attempts to choke this out leave my paper eyelids flat.
Tears are for the sorry, I’ve run out of that.
Don’t.
Stop.
Don’t.
Stop.
Don’t stop.
Don’t stop.
Don’t stop.

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