Poets logo

Too Sober

Cut off and hungover.

By Stella LyraPublished 7 years ago 2 min read
Like

Looking over the Kingdom abuzz

through cat’s eyes some hundred feet tall

I see my London and hate myself for it.

For if I were a tree, my roots deep and dry and gone bad,

this’d be the bark all rough against my cheek.

Still I’m looking to go

where the wind howls and the grey leans over

and the rain whips down merciless and heavy

and the waters are the colour of the forest

where the leaves are, and the flowers

longing to turn into fruit

as forbidden as a life in love and lightness.

Seems like I’ve framed myself into feeling precious again

Convinced that I can find her in every corner of the road

like I used to so easily

But now I’m old and dull and she won’t play with me.

And, deary me, I even sometimes wish I was a man

so I can say I’m old without these eyes of pity slapping me

across my burdensome name.

“What a disgrace”-I

have long stopped needing to be graceful.

Between death and living on the strings of your support

-well, isn’t the choice obvious?

Stingy little breaths

Charitable droplets of life straight to my veins

Just because you never know, and that’s the thing with miracles.

Besides, I’d put my dignity above anything but you.

Our body, the temple

Our body, the slaughterhouse

The battlefield, the water

The drops that merge and trickle down the mirror

Our one body

trembling, shaking, quivering

The magnet trying to break free from the hands of concrete,

break the screen.

Our toffee torture;

But then sweetness has never been you.

You’re famished, my love;

I offer you my bosom, soft and smooth

if only you could find your way to quench our thirst.

How could this ever be unlawful?

But if I’ve been taught anything

it’s that the rules are sacred

(so what if those who wrote them were the brokest).

Now, be good little girl

Harden your softness, soften your might,

come undone before the eyes of what God?

Your handstands, your somersaults will go down in history

The History Of The Small, History Of The Critters

Or go ahead and be a snake, alone and horrified of what is you.

Is that what you want?

‘Cause the sky’s not for us

Our god is dirt,

all safe and humble. Tempered. Grave.

Woe’d be me if they saw me turn my head up to see her

all terrifying and majestic, looking to undress me

to ravish me, to kick me up the staircase

to my pedestal of shame, my comfortable throne.

The mother I’ll forever run away from,

then come running back to, so she’ll cauterise my wounds

gathering spectators of all kinds

but leaving no witnesses to her crime.

She dopes me up and puts me to bed

She calls you to my side and leaves

for such is her charity

And I become the cloud that embraces your moon

And I become the laughter that lights up your miserable nooks

And I become the whirlwind that lifts you off the ground for

Eight

Glorious

Seconds.

Again, the morning,

that cruel, shiny bastard slides his grabby hands through.

I’d rather he punched me in my stupid face,

than make a mere dream out of our illness divine.

But still I dress,

and still I wash,

I walk the streets in my months of hangover

praying for you to send me my hair of the dog

soon.

I’m tired.

Have mercy on me.

sad poetrysurreal poetry
Like

About the Creator

Stella Lyra

Everything flows

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.