Unable
My heart is lost
In places worn
Pieces torn
By time’s thorns
Love comes uneasy
To one so unsettled
By an alien thought
Yet so readily bought
Time and time unfold
Different ways I hurl
Myself into tragedy and pain,
neglected into infamy
Blood dribbles down my back
The words on this book black
The victims decidedly fine?
Yet mine, the line, oh my mind
It is a crack past the edge
Is it their images bathed
In my self loathed wine
Making all seem fine
In my mind, when I am not.
12/5/21 – Andy McRae
I have been writing poetry for the last 13 years. It all started as an assignment for a creative writing course. I never thought I would like writing, as I am dyslexic and language was always a struggle for me, but I fell in love with the art form in that class.
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