The self pity cycle

..and in spite of the writing
cramps let the night in
fighting my demons
the way I know how.

Forty percent of me
fucked off for sanctuary

that was the yellow bit

I sit with a pen
a hypodermic and then
the morning breaks in

Pin me a note on my coat
‘an arsehole wears this’

Sitting and splitting the why and the where’s
pulling my hair out
what the fuck is that all about?

Of necessity dreaming of thighs
am I leaning to chicken for breast?

more why’s than a scrabble board
give me a rope or cord
and tie me up tight
in spite of it
I still sit
to write a bit

and it’s shit
but that’s a secret.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.