So unfamiliar with this feeling –
It’s got no name, no colour, no sound,
But it’s under my skin;
Creeping, scratching, gnawing around.
I see the way their entitlement lifts them,
To do what they want with disregard,
The paralysis of the trigger they’ve hit
Without any intent, I’m completely disarmed;
I can’t move to protest,
I can’t speak to alarm.
Without any contact,
Their behaviour causes harm.
I think that it’s anger;
This scratching that gnaws –
At; myself, my past,
At; the trigger and the cause.
At; how dare they do what they please,
With our stuff, with our presence, even with our bodies.
At; how easy it is for them to parade, un challenged,
As the people who fear them are looped in their damage.
At; them assuming control and laughing in its wake,
And all I can do is sit, my mind racing as I shake.
I can see what might happen,
Which is shaped by my past –
My ghost is gone, yet omnipresent –
How long will this last?
My words have no power,
My voice has no weight,
Thinking I had a handle on this,
Was a fundamental mistake.
But above all I’m lost;
In the fact I can’t feel –
Yet this nameless, colourless, soundlessness…
Is overwhelmingly real.
I’ve been an avid reader and scribbler for years but only recently started thinking about publishing my work.
I’ve always enjoyed writing and have, since 2008, been producing scripts for theatre as my main focus of writing, but always scribbling poems, songs and short stories for fun, and/or catharsis. I’m also a keen sketcher and sketchnoter.