a long time ago i used to write shit poetry. wrote this when i was fourteen. jesus.

You left your sandals
scratched and torn in the yard, shaving
foam in the bath, your love shut
out in the dark. I still taste your
scent, pay your rent, mourn
and lament. This is where your
mail is sent, where I wait
and frustrate, pretend you're late,
pretend I'm not in a state
while inside I rage, tear out the page
and start again, tears and promises,
fears and pain, washed down
the drain by your memory,

my love crushed and torn,
though it was forsworn,
although tenderly it
was born,
a silent dawn of
amounting lust and desire,
a burning fire that you put out.

Even though I scream and shout
and slam doors, fall asleep on the floor,
think of you more each day, you
refuse to go away
inside. That stale ecstacy
too good to last, a spirit of the
past, and everything reaks of
your presence, is stained by your touch,
lacks your fingers so
much, from colour to black and white, here
to out of sight, you've
taken flight though i'm still here,
the same room in blackened doom,
the same bride without a groom,

a sealed tomb.

[If you want to read some good poetry, try Reid's site. Or here. Or here.]