COMFORT

'I missed out on my teenage years, I led a sheltered life. I was practising scales instead of playing football.'

’Nah I’m sorry not tonight, I’m just not feeling it’

‘Oh come on! You said that last time just come out you’ll enjoy it!’

‘No I really shouldn’t, work in the morning and everything’

 

See she already overthought it.

Overcomplicated her life again,

taught to rein it in and

never dream of diamond rings,

or flings in the Spring,

an entire life caught

without stories to tell

or songs to sing.

 

She took the hand

she was dealt with

but never played the cards

Now she thirty-three,

brooding in the corner

of her bars.

Thinking of the

missed opportunities

the numbers she deleted,

the faces she forgotten

and the fears she ain’t defeated

 

A whole life based on the lie,

that patience was a virtue,

cos now her blood run dry,

her looks could hurt you,

and them untouched thighs,

will do they best to desert you

As they lay quivering,

under woollen rugs,

in the corner of her bed,

where she shrivels up,

 is she sleeping

or is she dead?

It’s worse than that,

 

She cold…

 

And she growing colder still,

whether it’s the grey of the day

or the freshly packaged bills

Small apartment in Oxford,

costs a lot but that’s okay,

Daddy’s a CEO,

offices in London and L.A.

She in his heart and his wallet

so ain’t never had to pay.

Never enough to go crazy,

or too little to be driven,

she was fine with comfortable,

if it meant easy middle living.

 

But she cries every night….

 

Numb to the world outside,

inside her walls she can’t hide

from her own echoes,

the whispers in the morning

and the screams at night.

Asking simple questions

to nobody

so she ain’t getting

a simple answer.

 

She may never read this,

but I’ll answer her question anyway.

 

Go outside.

Author's Note

The picture is of John Cale who's quote in the description inspired this poem.