Cuckoo In My Nest

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You are a cuckoo in my nest.
A game you’ll win with no contest,
Because I chose to leave.
From a distance I can see
You placing things to replace me;
I shouldn’t grieve.
I’ve felt so distant for so long,
Maybe I never did belong,
But don’t for one minute believe
That when some empathy is needed
The words ‘you’re family’ will be heeded;
That’s not the reality I perceive.

 

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The Bridge

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The bridge is falling down.
Bowing under the pressure of a million false promises and a thousand empty words.

Words are repetitive.
There are only so many ways to say
I love you. I want you in my life.
And for those heading doggedly towards man and wife –
Or any such variation –
There is the padlock.

Promises are passing moments,
Said only to raise smiles, halt tears,
And before you know it is the passing of too many years,
Wondering, how did I end up here?
There is the key.

Padlock our words to a bridge,
Then, leaning out upon the ridge,
Throw away the key.
Tie yourself forever to me.

Not in a million years.

I’d rather be weighed down in the river beneath
By all the keys you have bequeathed,
Than to live with false promises and empty words,
When the only truth need never be said nor heard.

 

Could Have Been

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It wasn’t so much that he dashed her hope against the rocks,
Or let her down with a bunch of forget-me-nots,
He didn’t make promises formed of smoke and mist,
Or seal false hopes with secret kiss.
He just made her feel that she was okay
Just as she was: no grand things to say.
No changes to make, no acts to put on,
No fearing that somehow she’d get something wrong.
And the moment hope decided to rear its meek head
The truth came out. Hope once again dead.
Sometimes, it’s harder to climb out
When you realise what life could have been about.

Could Have Been

Articulate

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If I could eloquently find the words
To articulate fuck you,
I’d smile sweetly, raise a finger,
And all my careful deception, undo.
You don’t get to be different
If the outcome is the same:
The one where I’m left feeling worthless
And I’ve just myself to blame.
Because the thing is, I let you do it,
Flaunt the things that cut so deep,
So here’s my new, resilient, FUCK YOU.
That life you say you don’t want is yours to keep.

A Study In Pride

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Don’t tell me you’re proud of me,
When it’s nothing but a fucking platitude,
A balm to soothe the wounds of your words,
Or to pull out the barbs
Of your own lack of worth from my skin.

You don’t get to be proud of me,
Show me off like a trophy of your achievements,
When your dismissal’s etched into my surfaces,
Marking me forever scarred.
You are not proud of me.

You scorn anyone who’s ever praised me.
Laugh, sneer, joke like I am one,
Until I become one.
Until your song is the only one I remember the lyrics for.
I have allowed your pride in me
To hollow out this shell.
To carve this non-life I’ve believed
Is all I deserve to exist in
To be nothing but this.
What even is, this?

You are not proud of me.
The word proud has no right getting past your teeth,
And I don’t need the lashings of your tongue
To remind me of that.

But I still hear that.
Any second I let me believe in myself,
Or listen to someone that’s not you.
And I don’t want to anymore.

Because you are not proud of me.

And I don’t need you to be.

I am not you.

Forgot

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In the details, sealed with dots,
Post It notes, ‘forget me nots’,
Calendars and diaries
Marked to make the memories,
Underlined and wrote in red
Monologuing all words said
Circled, coloured, duplicates
Alarms to stop forgetting dates.
But forget I always do,
Good and bad and old and new.
Doesn’t mean they’re any less
Important. But. I confess,
Sometimes, the things that you forget
Turn out to be the best ones yet.
Because, recalling brings a smile.
The time has passed, but was worthwhile 🙂

Forgot