My masterpiece is growing stale,
And I am sadly feeling soulless
In this world of two sided swords
My mark is rubbing off, like flaked paint,
And the coffee is cold in my shaky hand.
I once roamed these parts, taking snapshots,
Of beauty, coping greatly when life was placing curveballs,
I was like a neatly drawn picture of good health,
Striding forward never looking back.
My mask is peeling, revealing my tear blotched face,
I feel naked without it, on these streets of ridicule,
Looking at woman kissing their well-dressed men,
I walk with my head down, counting the cracks in the pavement,
Wondering if I’m going to swallowed whole, but that would be,
An easy way out.
I’m nervous most of the time, looking through people,
Never looking at them in the eyes, it may seem that ignorance,
Has overtaken my manners, but anxiety grips me into submission.
I look skywards, wishing the clouds would spell out my name,
And a list of my problems, so people can see first-hand what it’s like to be me,
A woman trapped in a fear ridden body, a capsule of rushing blood.
I finally walk over the welcome mat and into my home,
Silence in bliss.
Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist from Scotland. His work has appeared online and in print. He also loves to write cathartic fiction.