Games

A play on words,
With contradictions.
Complete denial of,
Fact and fiction.

The puzzle’s done,
The board’s been won.
The hangman’s hung,
You’ve had your fun.
You’ve had your fun and…

Games, games, games.
All you play is,
Games, games, games.

 
You roll the dice,
And move one space.
Snakes and ladders,
Poker face.

Complete confusion,
Just an illusion.
Egos bruising,
I don’t like losing.
I don’t like losing…

Games, games, games.
All you play is,
Games, games, games.

Games, games, games.
All you play is,
Games, games, games.

Trouble

Enough’s enough,
This has got to stop.
You might be tough,
But clearly I am not.

Enough’s not enough,
I don’t want to just be friends.
Every time we touch,
I need it again.

I’m trying to think,
I’m trying to think!
I’m trying not to think.

Trouble,
That’s all you are,
Just trouble.

Trouble,
That’s all you are,
Just trouble.

You say the only time,
You don’t feel sad,
Is when,
You’re fucking.

And I can’t figure out,
Does that makes me,
Unlucky,
Or lucky?

Now I need it too,
Now I need it too!
Now I need you.

But you’re trouble,
That’s all you are,
Just trouble.

Trouble,
That’s all you are,
Just trouble.

Little Brother

I’ve always been a sucker for love, maybe I didn’t get enough of it as a kid. When I was about a year old, my little brother was born but he was born all wrong. He was in hospital for months and months attached to machines and covered in tubes, just like one of the sick little babies they show on the telly when they’re trying to raise money for the children’s hospital.

 So anyway, my dad stayed at home and looked after us three kids; my older brother, my sister and me, while my mum spent all her time at the hospital standing over his little glass box looking down at him underneath all of those wires and stuff. It was during this period that I supposedly became withdrawn.

‘You went sort of, odd’ my mum told me once ‘and you sort of stayed that way.’ She said this last bit with a laugh and a wink, but the punchline was one of those jokes that isn’t really a joke at all. These are the best kind of jokes, the most effective comedy is always based in truth, I say. It’s the kind that gets you deep, touches some part of your soul. It’s the kind that hurts at first but then makes you feel better than you did to begin with. A bit like vomiting. Yeah, the best jokes sort of make your soul vomit.

So my mum thinks I never really recovered from that period of maternal separation and I reckon it’s as good an excuse as any to pass off my neediness. I mean, it’s a lot better than it being some kind of inherent personality flaw, like narcissism or psychopathy or…general, umm, crappiness. I think ‘generalised crappiness disorder’ would be too much for my poor vomiting soul to bare, it’s much easier if I just rue the day that my little brother was ever born.

Knots Upon Knots

There’s a need to back away from you, it’s not healthy, all this. My mind finds itself entangled like a pair of headphones at the bottom of a bag. Knots upon knots, I’m wrapped in on myself, because I just can’t get my head around you, around what you’re doing, around what you feel.

There’s no such thing as sleep anymore, not really anyway. And in those fleeting moments where I do drift off, you haunt me. You’re right there in my dreams, causing me some kind of trouble. The moment I wake up I feel sick, your face rises along with the light of the new day. I check my phone and see no text from you. I want to cry and go back to sleep, but instead I only cry.

So here’s to disappearing, to fading away from view, to slipping through your fingers, to being dusted off. Because you can’t expect a person to wait forever, waiting to hear the words they fear will never come. I know it’s not your fault I ended up in this place, I just got tangled up I guess.

It’s The Landing That Hurts

A figure walks through the door and my heart fills with blood. But it’s not you. My blood filled heart drops, my stomach does a strange but now familiar dance. My eyes feel a little wet or something. Nobody is looking at me, but I still don’t want to paint these feelings on my face. I take a deep breath and mentally wave away these sensations.

It was foolish of me to expect anything, I knew that from the start. Why did I let myself entertain romantic notions? I suddenly visualise Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke. No matter how many times he gets hit, for some reason he keeps getting up. And everyone is screaming at him to stay down. But he won’t stay down, so the punches keep coming. I think I might be this way.

Resilience has its price, let me tell you. There is a fine line between persistence and delusion, still I put on my ballet shoes, I centre my gravity and walk this tightrope every day. But there are only so many times you can walk the tightrope before you fall, call it…tempting fate. It’s not the falling that’s frightening though, it’s the landing. It’s the landing that hurts.