Sunday, 21 October 2012

First draft.

"Who'd really want to hear the backstreets of my mind?"

Third floor of the southbank.
We've asked questions about writing and what to say, 
I have a problem with pushing too much back. 
Putting too much behind when the words that inspire 
are the ones people stutter to say something that's been
building up and swirling around their head for months
and when they break through each one's a release of honesty that 
chills your bones. 

When everyone left we went to the pub.
Had a few drinks and you talked about your ex
how you've left her for the next and you're worried
because it's not confirmed and you don't know what's next
and you've been worried about losing peers respect.
Friends respect. My respect. I took a gulp.
Gulp. Said don't worry, you're doing what you think is right.
You're following your heart so there's no regrets.

And I started to feel words leap frog over what was planned
I closed them down. Shut them down. Shut up. proper obvs.
But words never really go, they'll come through
just directed at others, the people who'll forgive you
for saying reckless stuff but I haven't lashed out,
I've kept it in, pushed it back to the backstreets of my mind.

And who'll really want me to call you a cunt?