After my counselling session I felt, well – I’m not sure. Tense, numb, devastated, hopeful, frustrated. I went to the pub. A pint, desperate attempts to relax. Poetry seemed the only course of action: @shankanalia.
No titles I’m afraid but I’m sure they’ll emerge in due course.
Tension crawls up my spine
A tremor in the tendons
A twist in the muscle
Bunched
Writhing
Inside out
Contorted remembrance
Scorned bones.
I’d blind you
Take your eyes
And hands
Make an homunculus
To dwell in darkness
And torment
To make you real
Gift you suffering
Bless with pain.
How can I see the edge of a shadow
When it ends in darkness?
Where does the lie feed into The lost?
If I don’t remember I shouldn’t feel.
Your shadow
Fear filled emptiness
Void of hope
A shell of humanity Ghast
penumbral parasite
Drains
Darkens
Bleakly
Steals my soul
My truth.
Chaos of recollection
Flood of blame
The rippled doubt
Taints all things
With dubious stain
Belief is not the same
As knowing
Or hoping.
Can I trust the me that lies behind
Lost in the misted memory?
Had the answers
But couldn’t believe.
Agony of discovering
You were right before.
Mirrored grey
Flecked with truth
Concealing fictions
Cracked schismatic
Grinding tesselation of self.
Revelatory glass
Windows of true lies.
and 
