Tess

Tess

by Helen Barter

Memories of reading Hardy; 

obsessional Fairytale hunting -

Ignoring the text.

The only word to register is 

lovemaking.

Angel is not mine.

By the hairs on my chinny chin chin, 

I will not let you in.

Tears fall onto tombstones

as the christmas bell tolls.

Tussle

Tussle

by Helen Barter

I want nights of tussle.

Fighting over the duvet for warmth.

Generating heat.

I want days of tussle.

Fighting over thoughts and ideas.

Igniting flames.

I want evenings of tussle.

Using reignited flames to light

independent candles of ...

Life.

But we can't always have

what we want.

Luggage Labels

The "Windowful of Pockets" needs an extra frame and labels in the pockets to write the names for the running order. Felix, the editor of "Pocketful of Windows" likes it!! I am so pleased!

Another good day .....

Windowful of Pockets

I am so pleased with how this work is going. The acetate looks like glass in an old bookshop window, and the pockets look like books on a bookshelf. I am going to handstitch scribbly couched lines, like writing, linking across horizontally with the words of the poems, in black over the hessian, and in white over the window 'leaded lights'.  Very happy. 

 I really liked the ragged edges and fraying from the interim stages, and will continue with this in another piece, but for this particular piece, I want crisp window bars to emphasise the regular look of books and the window, contrasting with the random and fluid lines of the writing.

Progress

The thing  I am working on is for a poetry anthology book launch and open mic night on 5 December. The title of the book is "A Pocketful of Windows". I also needed a method of randomly selecting the running order for the evening. Thinking too literally, and since I have lots of dolls house windows left over from a previous project, I decided to start there. (See previous blog entry).

But it quickly became obvious the logistics of getting the windows to open, to reveal the name of the next reader,  was going to be too much for my non-carpenter's hands - these are hands to sew with, not saw with! I asked the editor of the anthology to send me a couple of lines from some of the poems. Inspiration overload!!, lots more ideas in the back of my sketchbook!

Windows, pockets, words, poems, December, advent calendar - a Windowful of Pockets - on its way!!

24 pockets, with verse, set within a window-like structure.

 

A new piece of work in the making........

I think this may be significant (finally) so I am going to blog its progress. For my benefit more than anyone else's because I still wonder about the value of a blog for the rest of the world! This makes a nice change from posting a poem though.

You Can't Have Everything

You Can't Have Everything

by Helen Barter

I used to say 

I didn't want anything.

Now I have nothing.

No responsibility for anything, 

except staying alive.

Not even for staying alive -

unless I want to.

Oath

Oath

by Helen Barter

Paroxysm of rebellion coughed 
into an empty ice cream tub.
Girl, guided by duty, to
promise that I will do my best.
Whose law should I be keeping
if not my own?

Half Term

Half Term

by Helen Barter

I know I am being a pain
but it's half term. 
School's out.
School's been blown to pieces.

Always the thrill of counting down the days.
Always the thrill of expectation.
Always the let down.
Reality.

I know I am being a pain.
It's half term.
I bought smokes for rolling behind the bike shed
with the big boys.

"Get bigger knickers if your pants don't fit."
Always the let down.
I thought I was supposed
to have grown out of nappies.

Clock Cafe at Eleven

Clock Cafe at Eleven

by Helen Barter

Reality is an unexpected companion.

It is here. Clock Cafe at eleven.

Dress considered and make-up applied.

Today there will be no tears.

That's a grain of sand which blew into my eye,

and the pale channels which appear

on my cheeks

are evidence of a turning tide.

Release

Release

By Helen Barter

There is no sense of distance, no sense of time.

The approaching shadow recedes;

pulling a breath deep from within my lungs

exhaled on the turning tide.

Imprisoned within each other, 

we are finally free.

Mother

Mother

by Helen Barter

She recognises in him

A bright openness to

All the possibilities 

Of the world.

But she can't remember

Seeing it in her own children.

She only remembers 

Pushing, forcing down.

Not able to cope with

Another bloody child walking.

Let-down

Let-down

by Helen Barter

Reflex response 

to suckling pig, weaned 

and no longer curious.

Bare breasted

I still ache.

Sailing Too Close to the Wind

Sailing Too Close to the Wind

by Helen Barter

Battered, bashed and

half drowned in cliches:

"you were my anchor, I am all at sea."

Waiting

Waiting

by Helen Barter

One step, two step, 

patiently round and 

round the overgrown garden,

the weeds binding my toes

to the slow rhythm of the pacing.

Powder Blue Shirt

Powder blue shirt, and

button-up flies.

Grey shorn soft

over pink scalp 

and ruddied cheeks

Indulgent belly 

stands firm

and I am still a 

woman of obsession.

Mother

Mother

By Helen Barter

She recognises in him

A bright openness to

All the possibilities 

Of the world.

But she can't remember

Seeing it in her own children.

She only remembers 

Pushing, forcing down.

Not able to cope with

Another bloody child walking.

Poet

Poet

by Helen Barter

Poet - 

when you write

are you a pianist

practising your scales

or an artist

drawing from life?

Is living life

and using words 

all you need

to call yourself poet?

A poem a day, 

keeps the doctor away.

Away from you, poet?

Or from me?

Suicide

Suicide

by Helen Barter

I once held a dead man's hand

and looked into his eye.

Deliberately.

His death was controlled powerful relief.

I held his hand and smiled as he left.

Deliberately.

Best Before Date

Best Before Date

by Helen Barter

'Thing' done,

Highly acclaimed.

Laid bare. On a plate

for others to feast from.

Step aside; 

others gorge 

on the 'all you can eat '

leftover buffet.

You have a life to live;

new things to say;

new ways to say them.

Elvis has not left the building.

Sent from my iPad

I Heard His Voice

This is my first attempt at Flash Fiction

I Heard His Voice  by Helen Barter

I heard his voice. 

I said, "Hang on. I'll buzz you in." 

I saw him standing in the lobby,  in a pristine white shirt. During the opening of the door he turned into my Father, my Mother already standing behind me. I tried to close the door.  I tried to turn the figure in white back into him. I would have given him my time.  I would've stopped what I was doing, but I didn't want to talk to my Father.

I was busy looking for something. I was late already,  going out to read some mediocre poetry to a group of mediocre poets. I couldn't decide whether to read 'Cupboard' or 'Mother', but couldn't find either. 

My Father followed me around the room asking questions I didn't know the answers to and things which I didn't want to think about. I felt foolish, impatient and cross, but disloyal for ignoring him and wishing he wasn't there. My Mother sat in a chair and began to cry. My Father walked across and stood behind her, his hands exerting downward pressure on her shoulders.

I found 'Cupboard' so stopped looking for 'Mother'.

'Mother' was in her lap. She picked it up and read it aloud, then screwed it into a tight ball.  I said she could keep it but she threw it at me. She stood up and walked towards to door, my Father followed her. 

They walked away, leaving me with 'Cupboard' and a pristine white shirt.

Somewhere

Somewhere

by Helen Barter

I could motivate you, 

with only imagination and

a bomb 

at my disposal. 

Over our rainbow 

red shoed legs protrude.

Reality flattened by

a technicolor proposal.

Impotence

Impotence

by Helen Barter

Expectant humiliation 

Of pointless, impotent waiting. 

Stood up and stupid.

Opportunities are not lost in the void of silence

they are strangled by their own umbilicus 

suffocated before birth.

The Story Ends

The Tale of the Wolf in Fire Monkey's Clothes,

the Rotten Core of the Princess' Heart 

and How the Story Ends

Mirror mirror, apple's heart,

Wolf in monkey's clothing.

Fear ignites her troubled soul

And singes hooded loathing.

Poison bleeds from rotten core,

Monkey's taste enflames.

All the better to eat her up

And spit out charred remains.

Shadows

Shadows

by Helen Barter

Will the dried yellowing heads 

issue seed for careful gathering, 

or simply emphasise your passion for 

thistledown flight.? 

Could you stamp on the brittle shadows 

beneath your feet, and tread their dust 

into a mulch, 

to replenish fertile strata, in readiness 

to plant your life's collection 

and still have time to watch it grow.

Or are you still the admiral, 

harbouring a desperate need to 

check and recheck your stock, 

whilst adding further to your hoard of exotic samples. 

Do the creeping shadows suffocate 

or embrace you?

Reading the Crow Road to Eden

Reading The Crow Road to Eden

by Helen Barter

Lascivious trespass of a self-indulgent thief;

the uninvited consequence of

walking a different road.

Stealing songs of solitude, 

and hungrily sucking foreign memories

into lachrymose loneliness.

Reading words of a forbidding God;

of pride in her presence and 

gladness for her voice.

Windfall apple feels fluttering moth of 

paper scrap, expelled 

from the tight security of folded, aching spine.

Languishing on the idly massaged fullness of her breast

are the words  "lidless pot".

Has Anybody Seen My Bed?

Has anybody seen my bed?

by Helen Barter

(With more than a passing nod to AA Milne)

I closed my eyes for only a minute,

Just to make sure I was really in it,

I think it's somewhere inside my head.

Hasn't anybody seen my bed?

Monkey

Monkey

by Helen Barter

Intense, all consuming emotion.

Naive outpouring, heart wrenching

declaration of undying passionate love 

with no real understanding 

or consideration for another.

Just overwhelming need.

Pitiful, painful crying out

passed through mother's milk.

Instinctively you feel concern for poor monkey.

His kindness was genuine and well-meant.

The angel didn't fall, was he was pushed.?

Breaking News

Breaking News

by Helen Barter

Mahout's dowry provides

just enough rope from the bottom drawer

to hang a five storey elephant.

White houdah, bearing passengers and players,

crashes to the ground.

We have received reports 

of minor injuries, but no fatalities.

Maybe Today But Not Tomorrow

Flatlined, but still breathing.

Dull thudding instead of wild music

ears

heart

leaden legs.

All is as it always is.

Give Peace a Chance

Give Peace a Chance

by Helen Barter

My bed is the same as yesterday.

Connections worm

the wider world unwittingly 

into my conscience,

but - 

my bed is a place to embrace

decisions made from knowledge

not ignorance.

Leave the door open on your way in.

Unrepentant

Unrepentant

by Helen Barter

Ugly self-pity gapes

as wide as the seagull's unrepentant beak.

Curtains billow and lift.

Comfort, abandoned 

along with my self-respect.

Cold, damp air on my skin, 

lifts the tiny hairs across the back of my neck

and I close my eyes.

Cold, dry tears on my face

harden in spite of myself.

Desire

Desire

by Helen Barter

The stash of secrets under my pillow

makes me ache with anticipation.

Dreams which once invited,

enticed me to slumber, 

now keep me awake with 

the proximity of unspoken promise.

To Have and To Hold

To Have and To Hold

by Helen Barter

From this day forwards,

the joy of ....

repetition.

Faithful fingers feel guilty, when,

functional touch ignites subconscious thought,

and you come with the shock of the new.

Night Time

Night Time

by Helen Barter

So tired.

Breath constricted.

Achingly tired with wide eyed

heart, heaving like imminent vomit.

Body rigid.

Too scared to move.

Throat too tight to cry out

and no one to hear.

Sleep-chased

coronary sobs of

night time memory.

Life

Life

by Helen Barter

Gripped so tight it shattered.

Bent in the lonely stoop of

picking up fragments of why,

the pieces are becoming familiar

at last.

Why

Why

by Helen Barter

Why am I still fighting.

Fighting for you, 

or against myself.

How can I tell you what 

I don't know.

Memories

Memories

by Helen Barter

He sat at home, waiting, with his net poised.

Snared, I shared 

my thoughts, emotions, feelings.

Starving, he devoured them,

trying to make them his own.

My vivid dreams and visions,

coloured with his brush, 

turned so many shades of brown.

Lilitu

Lilitu

by Helen Barter

Fallen angel in search of a home.

Demonically sucking the lifeblood 

from vulnerable men in sleep.

Awaken, poor vulnerable man

to aching erection and weakness of spirit.

Call it the sign of her coming, not yours.

The troubled dreams of a believer

turned infidel, held in thrall by the sweet 

parted lips of Lilitu.

Connection

Connection

by Helen Barter

Their connection is intense.
She turns herself on,
enflaming his desire with
her open passion.

Their connection is palpable.
Reticence stamps on its heart.
Jealousy then is the worm
of destruction.

Thought

Childish narcissism and hairy chins are

insignificant in your world of bombs and torture.

But how many deaths to make it stop?

In either, only one.

Toes Tapping

Toes Tapping

by Helen Barter

Nationwide queuing.
Toes tapping in line.
Imagining the contorted dance steps
these unlikely lads would perform,
I laugh -
out loud.

Out loud laughter helps me blend in.
Establishes my rightful place in the 'crazy queue'
along with that woman.
Strange eyebrows unceremoniously cut, straight.
Ends flat like paintbrushes,
bristles at right angles to her face.
I try not to stare, 
giving no special credence to any part of
the surrounding circus.
I avert my eyes from the cut brows to
the wispy, long, curly hairs 
flowing from her chin.

Given time, and enough queuing,
with toes tapping in line,
I think my circus act will be
'The Bearded Lady meets The Full Monty.'
Showing Nationwide.

Listen with Lowell

Listen with Lowell

by Helen Barter

Long legged daddy

dragging your stick body along the flat glass.

Pulling with the tips of your toes

to maintain contact.

Holding wings firm and motionless.

Losing contact and ...

Drop.

Manic beating to avoid an over fast descent.

Heavy work to re-attach your toes to the slippery surface.

Still dropping towards the sill

despite your efforts to remain 

alert.

The End of an Obsession

The End of an Obsession

By Helen Barter

Panic.

Black rocks

re-opening old scars 

once thought healed.

Half-remembered thoughts.

Recognised but abandoned.

Failures. 

Descent.

Grabbing at a hand,

any hand,

for dear life.

A dangerous damaging grasp

ripping, ripping precious memories

and new friendships

from their foundations

sending them tumbling 

downwards.

Some things land 

with me.

Some are smashed.

The story of the princess, the fire monkey and the night watchman

The story of the princess, the fire monkey and the night watchman

by Helen Barter

Scars resulting from previously misread fairytales, 

brought the princess and the fire monkey together. 

Both had sought solace in a seaside town, 

away from the clamour and hurt of

'happily ever after'. 

The stage was set. 

The fire in the monkey's tail had been damped; 

starving him of his life force. 

His mischief making had been temporarily curtailed, 

whilst the hot, ugly pain radiating from 

the princess's healing wounds 

threatened to engulf the fabric of her life. 

Passion attracted the fire monkey like a beacon.  

Their's was a perfect symbiosis. 

He, tenderly absorbing the heat from her healing scars,

judiciously used it to reignite his own fire. 

The night watchman looked on, 

guarding the precious coals.

With the theatre intact, and the safety curtain 

dropped into place across the stage, 

the princess relaxes into the intermission. 

And the fire monkey? His tail, 

now too hot for sedentary slumber, 

waves a fiery farewell. 

As he turns to leave, one teardrop falls 

onto his tail, releasing a perfect smoke ring. 

The princess places it onto her finger.

The night watchman places a comforting arm around her shoulder.

Scar

Scar

by Helen Barter

Angry purple scar of keloid swollen pain.

Heat from healing - radiating and engulfing

the surrounding air in a hot, ugly hurt.

Sliding of fabric - 

a tremble of anticipation.

The cooling whisper of an in-breath,

before your soft mouth imparts tender ministrations of love - 

judiciously igniting a fire to forget all scars.

London to York

London to York

by Helen Barter

Trying to write for my daughter, but

the image of your ebony skinned lover

and a life which no longer includes me

keeps forcing itself into my mind.

Tall, elegant, shaven head and 

those white, white teeth.

A smiling vision of sophistication

exotically opposite to all that I am.

The image will keep returning 

at times of self-doubt and 

uncertainty - like now.

York to London

York to London

by Helen Barter

Trepidatious fluttering stomach

sipping tea from a spouted paper cup.

Dried up bacon, from a less than fresh bun,

lodges in my teeth as the train arrives.

Seat reservation made

the line is caught.

Hooked and pulled tight.

Reeled in by the

frantic spooling of an invisible thread

drawing me closer and closer towards

the rod which I beat myself with.

Accompanied by a constant shadow, 

now running alongside the sunlight which 

catches on the endless track,

flashing through the muffled voices of 

suffocating conversations and soporific shrouds.

Ignoring reserved, class, coach, seat C71, 

I face the other way.

The tugging line which draws blood from my lip

as I writhe and fight against the future

becomes a safety harness

as I relax, blinkered,

leaning my back into the now.

There is no shadow running alongside.

I am basking in bright sunshine.

My eyes close, and the soporific shroud

becomes a welcome lullaby.

Unrequited Love

Unrequited Love

by Helen Barter

If you were here .....

I would kiss you gently. 

A kiss of welcome; of knowledge;

a kiss of shared experience, and yes,

a kiss of love. 

A kiss so soft its imprint 

would be left on your heart 

rather than your lips.

I would kiss you firmly.  

A kiss of familiarity; of intellectual stimulation;

a kiss of things to come, and yes, 

a kiss of desire. 

A kiss so meaningful it 

would awaken feral memories

of a lust once aroused.

I would kiss you passionately. 

A kiss of urgency;

a kiss of overwhelming lust.

A kiss to atone for unfulfilled and unrequited longing.

A kiss so full of necessity it would 

tear at your soul 

as well as your skin.

I would kiss you with abandon. 

A kiss of uncontrollable ecstasy.

A kiss with orgasmic intent.   

A kiss so full of us both

that it would burn your taste into 

my mouth 

forever.

Cupboard

Cupboard

by Helen Barter

I am drowning in stuff, and

it makes my mission impossible.

Just living a life

is an insurmountable effort, if

I can't get from A to B.

Displaying my stuff in the window means

I can't close the curtains

without knocking things over;

The kitchen is an uncharted deep, dark cavern

beginning to grow mould on mould

and even getting into the bathroom

is a nightmare.

I clear a space, for me,

in my small corner.

Large enough to sit.

A kennel for my black dog.

I can make my life in that small corner,

showing the world my 'happy head'

still unable to light a life

with my own dim candle.

I'll come out when it's all over.

There are too many obstacles.

There is too much mess.

It is too hard

to take that

one

small

step, again,

and again, and again . . .

let alone

the

giant

leap

required

to hurdle the piles and piles of clutter.

"Release your tight grip on that candle-end

and allow the world to warm your cold, numb fingers.

It's ok to kick and spit and fight.

But not with yourself.

Not by yourself.

You are not Old Mother Hubbard

The dog may still hold the leash but

it is not your master."

Three poems from SCARBOROUGH FLARE workshops

I was delighted to have been able to attend two poetry writing workshops over the long weekend of Scarborough Flare. These are poems which I wrote at the workshops.

The first two were inspired by Jo Reed's "WOMEN's WORKS" workshop:

Pass the parcel

Layer upon layer of names

protecting me from myself.

Pack up all the emotions

but leave no forwarding address.

Brown paper packages tied up with string

but these are not favourite things.

Tie the string tight - so that none of me escapes.

Then i can be myself again.

Hot Tap

Hot.

It's no more hot 

than Magritte's pipe is a pipe.

The ceramic, the word.

Even the beautifully turned metal thread of the connector.

All plastic.

Cold hard plastic.

It offers no conduction 

even if heat could be applied.

The next was inspired by Adrienne Silcock's 'Waves and Wishes' workshop:

Me.

Alone.

Searching.

Bent double with my hands digging wildly in the wet sand.

Wearing rags as grey and damp as the air which enfolds me.

Lost in today, and maybe tomorrow.

I want to bury my whole self, along with my hands.

I am me.

I am alone.

Today, and maybe tomorrow.

Catching Rainbows

Catching Rainbows

by Helen Barter

Focussed on hedonistic pleasure,

our prism spins, flings 

rainbows towards my heart.

We feel the colour and

embrace in refracted light.

So why try to catch rainbows?

Appreciate the exquisite now.

Trust in tears and sunshine.

Our rainbow will come again. 

And again.

Apologies

Apologies

by Helen Barter

She phoned

to apologise.

Assuming I was your wife.

I said I wasn't.

I apologised.

Was she your wife?

She said she wasn't.

We both apologised.

Your wife phoned.

Your poor, poor wife

apologised!

But are you really sorry?

Porn Habit

Porn Habit

by Helen Barter

Want to know how i really feel?

No different from any other porn habit, remember?

Keep it up?

If I want?  

And you?

"You'll be 

a 'bit' disappointed 

but you'll accept - if it's over."

Find another website.

Another slut?

You don't want to know how I really feel!

I'm no different to any other porn habit.

Remember!

Nourishment and Life

Nourishment and Life

by Helen Barter

Tending to your offspring with 

a mechanical giving of food.

The focus of your attention diverted.

You too are starving.

Craning, open-mouthed for

something

just out of reach.

HUNGER

Hunger

by Helen Barter

As the spoon nears my mouth

I turn my head away.

I am starving, but I still want caviar.

You are my unattainable feast.

I am your 'boil in the bag'

ready meal.

At last . . . . the lightbulb!

Declaration of Love or, Just Another Fuck

by James Marshall

I won't accept responsibility for you.  

I'll take your bum,

Your tits,

Your filthy, sexy, dirty mind....   

But i won't take ALL of you.

I don't even have the confidence

to trust myself.

I will take my independence, but

give you just enough to make you believe

I am different.

But its all in your messed up head.   

Not mine.     

You can put words in my mouth                                               

if I can put my cock in yours.

The Ballad of Gloria Gaynor

The Ballad of Gloria Gaynor

by Helen Barter

Hey, hey, 

I will survive 

secretly nourished 

by my own sex drive.

I should have grasped 

an interest in life,

not simply titled myself

 'unfulfilled wife'.

Why was I afraid of me?

When I am such 

a good place to be.

The Quilt

The Quilt

By Helen Barter

When we were young

We laid our pattern pieces together,

and matched the edges 

Just for fun. 

Agreed to leave the paper foundations in place 

until all our blocks were sewn.

We enjoyed the prick and stitch of

Comparing our design to others.

We have survived the intervening years.

Our feelings for each other were pinned deep.

Other relationships haven't changed us; 

We just weren't together.

Now my fingers are gnarled and my eyesight is poor. 

The fabric begins to crumple and fray 

where the edges have remain undefined.

I still treasure the thread that binds us. 

Bridge in the Hundred Acre Wood

Bridge in the Hundred Acre Wood

by Helen Barter

There was a chair in the corner of my bedroom

where Christopher Robin used to sit.

He would just be there, watching me sleep.

Sometimes I would wake up in the dark

and see him looking at me.

I knew I was awake.

I used to be afraid of the dark

until Christopher Robin said he was afraid

of the light.

Mother's Day

A day waiting for a key in the door.

Unable to concentrate.

Unable to think.

Only wait.

Mother? 

Is that you?

Poem

Formed by the sands of experience,

other relationships served only 

to lay down fertile strata

in readiness for your seed.

Declaration of Love

Declaration of Love by JM

By Helen Birmingham

I can't accept responsibility for you.

Yes to your arse,

your tits, 

your filthy, sexy, dirty mind....

But I can't take ALL of you.

No one can.

You must keep something for yourself.

Give me independence.

Then I can comfort you 

from your overwhelming emotions.

Kiss the soft tears from your eyes,

cradle your messed up head and

kiss your lips.

Gentle

delicate

reassurance.

The Ballad of Yosser Hughes

I could make the Emperor some new clothes.

I am honesty and hard work.

The 'art souls' wrap him in a cloak of conceptualism.

A garment of inadequacy with everything and nothing on show.

I could make the Emperor some new clothes.

I am genuine emotion.

The 'art souls' dress him in arrogance and pretension.

He is naked.

They can't even acknowledge he has a beautiful cock.

Snozzcumber

I built the barricades.

Taped around the edges

to muffle the sound of my screams.

But the stinking fetid juice of rotting memories  

seeped underneath the door and tainted 

everything.

The Prince, The Thief and The Torturer

Prince Charming was a spoilt bully.

I was his favourite toy. 

He threw me onto the floor

and broke me.

The thief offered to have and to hold.

Invited me to reposition my armature to lean against his.

Secretly he was sculpting

my collapse.  

My body broken.

My trust stolen.

I began the slow process of torturing myself.

Alone

Alone

The security blanket 

didn't turn up 

to my brother's wedding.

Just his name in golden hand

staring from the emptiness beside me.

My father, drunk

smoked a cigar,

Lurched outside to vomit.

I cried and watched

as the last of my security was expelled with force

into the gutter.

Requiem

Requiem

By Helen Barter

Without the closeness you can't be moved?

Without the distance you can't be amazed?

I let you touch me.

Fragile mind, abused body.

Remember how you distanced yourself from me?

So violently 

so unexpectedly 

that 

it 

tore 

my 

heart.

Were you amazed that I lost my mind?

Were you amazed that for years I lost belief in myself?

Now you are dead.

And I am moved to tears.

Window without a frame

A conversation with depression

Window without a frame: 

a conversation with depression

Why do you lock me in an empty room?

To protect me from the view?

You don't give me a backward glance

Even when I shout out to you. 

I'm tied to the blackness.

No window. No view.

You see in from the outside,

All I can see is you.

Go on then, nail me to a naked wall.

Fuck me anew.

But you don't see me anymore.

And please, oh please, I don't want to see you.

You've tried putting me in a genteel frame

Hanging me out to view

But I won't be imprisoned by a mirror of glass.

I don't belong to you.

I'm kicking through the picture's frame.

I'm finding my own view.

Standing alone on the window ledge

And jumping . . . ..

..... without you.