Someone needs to hit the January sales

Temper tantrum. Clothes
in bin. Nothing to wear to
see the New Year in…

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Box

Too many glasses in
I let you in.
You rip me open;
I tell you fears and
Frustrations about
Futures.
You nod, smile,
Wrap me up tight,
Say all the right things and
In the morning
Turn on the Xbox.

I get back
Into my box
And quietly sellotape
My mouth shut.

Collapse

Burnt tar and wood.
Weeks gone now.
An unhappy aspect,
And you need to be
Tidied Up.
Cut and drilled
Sawn and hammered
And you’re as good
As new.
Painted over with
Brushstrokes of life.
Neat. Tidy. Better.

They cannot see
Your canvas
Is ripped, torn,
Rotten underneath.
Hold the weight
And wait
For the collapse.