When your pen feels like a splinter in your hand,
When your malicious inner demons won’t be quiet.
When your body feels like a carcass left out for the dogs,
When your convinced you’ll soon be caught out as a liar.
There is no better time to write.
Write whatever your demons are slyly whispering,
Write no matter how badly it hurts about how you feel.
Write to exorcise all your fears and insecurities,
Write it all down and create poetry for you that’s real.
I tugged and sliced you from where you felt safe,
even though you’re unready to face the world.
But here you are.
Blinking, adjusting, squirming,
desperate to be constrained again.
Yet slowly awakening to the fact that
everything is now different.
Hesitantly I take the mewling poem,
clothe it in paper,then
place it in a cardboard crib.
I step back, wondering,
am I ready to be a father?
Your heart was a nothing but a maze of
twisted tiny streets. Each one promising
that it would lead me to you, but
instead spiraling me away from my
desire. Making me retrace again and
again my tired steps, as instead of drawing
closer to you, we got further and
Even us old grunge kids it seems have moved on,
We’ve come out of the clubs and staggered home.
We never got round to loading up our guns,
So we didn’t die as we thought we might unloved and alone.
Our long hair’s gone but our stomachs have grown,
When we move quickly it seems everything hurts.
We turn off the radio as it makes us feel very old,
Wearing our nostalgia like we once proudly wore our check shirts.
But if us old grunge kids are out moaning about mortgages,
And the jukebox starts to play Smells Like Teen Spirit.
We remember that with the lights out it was less dangerous,
As the guitar intro clangs we begin to rise from our seats.
Then we feel our children’s dirty looks and hear mumbled tuts,
Like an errant mosquito we feel beaten down.
But despite this denial we tap our feet and sing,
Happily worse at what we do best, ignoring all the frowns.
On our way home we dust off the CD to play,
Our offspring’s comments are cutting and unkind.
They scream. “What’s this ancient garbage you’re playing?”
We just sigh and say,” Nevermind.”