Still Green

A late summer in June,

Sticky afternoon as cars whizz past.

The sun burns a familiar orange as I close my eyes and reminisce.

At a quarter past three,

The rays of the sun still dance on the bedroom floor.

I huff and puff against the mother's chest

As she sleeps easy.

Yet sleep fails to find me for all the thousand pats on my back

And afternoons remain my most hated time of day.

I try to recall

When it all went wrong,

When I concluded I was brave.

I'd stacked myself up in bricks

And at long last,

Looked after the injured bird within.

Fidgety but feisty

Jittery with repressed rage.

I'm on the precipice of doing immense wrong.

I am full and empty, fed and hungered.

I will smash into smithereens my conscience,

An ever-present beckoning.

But the bricks have started to erode.

My anger dissipating as fast it comes

Like water hitting hot steel;

A screech, then vapour.

I now cry in the arms of all that gives me comfort.

Can you forgive all the poison I spewed?

What is a better illusion than when the lover feels more like home?

Your absence feels

Like a buzzing, aching presence.

I'm drowning.

Holding onto the raft you sail upon

But you're content to paddle away.

I guess I'll just have to swim my way.

Hot dusty winds swipe my tears

And I shake from my head all I once held dear.

Nerves hammer gently against my skin

As I cross the road now clear.