This is a bit bleak, written during a period of intense introspection, anxiety, and self loathing. At this point, I imagined that this would be the opening scene to the film adaptation of my autobiography; a view that my life would end at that point, at the age of around 19. Today’s poem is under the page break.


The mint green hatchback forms a dark silhouette against the back drop of an intensely piercing orange sunset.

His door, flung wide open, creates a passage for the soundtrack to flow amongst the woodland.

Walk slowly, step by step.

Follow the meandering path towards the vast oak tree on the crest of the hill,

Dimly illuminated by the pale full beam of the mint green hatchback.

When you get to the expansive trunk of the age old oak tree, look up.

There. That’s where he is.

Determined and desolate,

Coyly swinging between the branches.

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