Poetry

After a meeting

My bones are rock, the act of talking

leeching the energy from my mind

even though I know I look completely comfortable.

I get home, in my own space;

that’s when it comes out. Materialises.

The heaviness. The weight.

I deaden, yet laugh maniacally

as it rains from my body.

I’m tired.

Poetry

Waterworks

Rinsing my emotions down the drain

is like convincing Thor to put down his hammer.

I’ll do it

reluctantly and sometimes violently,

turning the tap on fully so that water spits

at full pressure,

thunderous as a barbaric yawp;

 

it washes away everything

before I have a chance to reconsider.

 

I’m left as the soulless husk

they want me to be,

ready for the day’s reprogramming

to begin.