Cry

This is what the weekends mean to me,
locked indoors, behind a computer screen
writing mad poetry,
listening to Morrissey
having no regrets at all

Not exactly happy,
nor exactly tamed,
pin another label on me,
besides the one that's placid and strange

Where were you,when this storm appeared?
multiple deaths,and a feeling of unrest
too busy memorising forgotten body parts,
the ones I retired, so very long ago

Slowly clearing these cobwebs,
from the hidden confines of this head
forgotten memories,quite suppressed
to bring them to light,
is to create another mess

there are no tied apron strings,
to talk him down from the pain he brings
but what of the others,
shouldn't they be truly acknowledged
for tainted fingers crossed,
behind unknowing backs?

Feeding off each other,
misdirection, anger and pointless lies
having no false alibis
I will never cry ...