I can't make movies based on lying around in bed,
but I can make poetry from the thoughts inside my head.

It doesn't have to be good, it doesn't have to be great
as long as its eludes to my terrible fate:
a sad and lonely death, leaving nothing behind
other than the words I wrote down to unwind
after days and weeks, hours and minutes of refrain.
Words of pain from my brain that I can't contain.

Because one day I'll trip and one day I'll fall.
One day I'll hit my head against a wall.
All that alcohol abuse, all that substance misuse
was only ever leading here: a bleeding recluse.
And I'll think: "Is this how it ends?"
And I'll blink: is this how it ends?

I can't make movies based on lying around in bed,
but I can make poetry from the thoughts inside my head.


© Kieran James Bunn