There was a line going on in her head
‘to be or not to be..’ dead,
but she’d read Shakespeare so
that was fine

lines on her face
haggard and drawn
words from her lips
‘wish I’d never been born’
that wasn’t her choice

the voice in her head

to be not to be too dead

and as so often occurs when
her mind wandered
she got it mixed up

Wanting hemlock,
she got
electric soup
white lightning
chemical cosh

no one’s posh when they’re pissed.

it’s a saga
cheap lager
a rough bed to lay on
crayon her lips and
she slips
slowly away.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.