Taking cover within the wingspan of your lilac felt curtains
As beams of the day pass by the cracks in your cheeks
Consuming oxygen for the noble act of nothing
Since you lack the resources to rise
You bat away the tickles on your chin
As the claws of the unknowing trace a pattern on your face
Imagining all the feats you could’ve achieved
If only you had all these things that don’t exist
As if guided by strings, you make your contributions
At the foot of a paper thin democracy
You can’t find any thing to get your heart racing
To widen your eyes and get sweat on your palms
I know you’d lack the cells in your cranium
To mistake a 40 quid debt of forgotten memories
Of teardrops and routine mishaps to recite the next day
As even a ripple in the flow of your life
Just crawl back to the womb of your mattress
Every second sober to you is a second bored
You’ve lost your ability to see the beauty
Of the spells people create with their fingertips everyday
How could anyone be so bored?
How could anyone be so boring?
If you can’t see things my way
Then crawl back to that wingspan till you die
Your kind are a tax on life itself
Domestic Poetry 