Elise Shaw

I’ll try to describe how I’m feeling inside

from my city of rubble, with walls too high.

I check my watch but I’m never on time;

if dinner’s at 8, I arrive at 9.

Plates are empty, glasses half full,

I head for the exit, push rather than pull.

I stare at the mirror, I hate this fit,

my skin’s not mine, my hair looks like shit.

I awkwardly pick at invisible lint,

I never feel clean, except when I squint.

Echoing howls off my lowland hollow,

silence so loud is a tough pill to swallow.

If you walk by my house, I’ll bark from behind old logs;

read the sign asshole, beware of the dogs.

The remote broke, so I tried smacking the telly,

fucked up my hand and missed Silicon Valley.

I can’t go back, or forward, or pause time;

I skipped all the good bits, stuck on rewind.

Not everything I feel is easy to describe:

it’s like trying to explain colour to someone who’s never seen light.

Rainbows of confusion, kaleidoscopes of despair,

a palette with no hue has left my word-painting bare.

Not everything I feel can be compared to something else;

I can’t explain it to you, or to them, not even to myself.

But with my overalls on and my high heels off,

I dismantle my walls and rebuild my loft.

Brick by brick, exposing my soul;

it’s never too late to make a half whole.

With my walls coming down and my house going up,

sun breaks the horizon, filling my cup.