The night sky was dull with the orange glow,
polluted by the city,
all these negative senses spiralling into the atmosphere,
leaving all the not so happy campers below
left to their own rotten minds,
spinning on the spot causing nausea and hatred.
The slow traffic backed up into the distance,
there were only fumes and burning petrol,
running engines and chattering teeth,
for it was so cold,
freezing the exposed fingers
and causing the noses of all the lonely people to run.
It was London town,
the year was two thousand and nine,
and the world was crying big fat crocodile tears,
hoping to be noticed,
or maybe just wanting to be spared
from all the tripped over lives and unnecessary sorrow.
The rain sounded like the drums
he had always wanted to learn, t
he rhythm he never had
would forever mock him
for never having taken the time
to be become the person he wanted to be,
so now he sits alone,
typing, trying to be a writer,
wanting to be appreciated,
but only by those he admired,
never the masses,
never the coca cola loving big Mac eaters
who he despised.
Sure it was easy to sit alone,
it was even easier to drink the darkness
from his memory,
but it was never so easy,
never in London town.
The ocean of haircuts and trendy clothes
would pass him by so monotonously
it would make him cry,
those same crocodile tears that governed everybody else,
the anti-depressants eased the pain
that he hated to feel,
but what was better,
to live in a mist of blurred thoughts,
stolen away by chemicals,
or live in misery, letting all the memories eat him alive?
Moving, running constantly
he was always looking for somewhere else to be,
somewhere that would inevitably make him happier,
but the problem he faced was this –
life has no soundtrack,
the movies always had a romantic feel of adventure,
but the solid gold truth was
that nobody writes a soundtrack for your life,
and it doesn’t play in your head
whenever you feel bad.
It was 7pm,
and the bad news he had received
earlier that day had him miss an exam,
the first of many that should really have been taken,
but another death,
more sorrow for the memory bank
had him attached to a landslide of thought
he couldn’t jump off, he was trapped again.
So he popped another pill
and hoped the pain would fade away
gently as the serotonin was released into his brain.
The bitter lemonade he was drinking
only made the cigarettes taste ugly in his mouth,
like rotting serpents on his tongue,
so he sipped tea and stared into the monitor,
this screen that would become his only family,
his only friend in these nasty days of rain and freezing cold fingers.
His tattoo was itching,
but he dared not scratch it,
as it was his tattoo artist that had died tragically
in a motorcycle accident the day before,
and he didn’t want to upset the spirit
of the person he had come to love.
The funny thing about it was,
he hadn’t known the man that well,
but after sitting for hours under the watchful eye
of his tattoo gun
he had struck up a rapport with the guy,
and now he missed him deeply,
knowing he would never see him again,
so what else could he do,
but write and try and exorcise the demons from his soul.
His wrist always ached
when he typed on that graffiti covered keyboard
for too long, the boring beige he despised
always staring back at him as he looked over the board,
three fingers on the right hand
but only one on the left hitting keys,
often making mistakes,
looking out of the window into the rain
where the boy racers sped along the road beside the railway tracks
He often thought,
“There just isn’t any space left for anyone in this town”,