A poem written for a competition, however ran on slightly long. |
So I’m packing my things Each photograph, wrapped separate, Put into these flimsy little boxes And piled in the hall. And my clothes are tugged from the pegs Shoved down to the floor Piled, messily, angrily even At the break in my OCD laws. But I shove pieces of fluff into my ears And drown out their bitter screams Throw them with pace into boxes Marked, ‘dresses which need a clean’ From their old musty smell And old, dirty memories Which cling to every wretched fibre Of each shrunken, PJ tee. Each with shame, each with tears Stained on the shoulders, Ripping at the hems like blood hounds to carcass. So I leave them in the hall, Dust prints where my shoes have trodden Ahead of myself; To the swinging, emaciated door Where the wood is chipped And bitten and dead and dying Or both, Or neither From the outside, It is blue, with white panelling Pretty, and well fitting Golden handle glimmering bright But from within its so misshapen Horribly rounded and jagging Gaping light, and cold air, cold breath And I can’t shut it. Ever I think So Im leaving, forever But the door, Remains open, my dirty laundry In the air. |