Poetry

A Wreath of Teddy Bears

By 29th November 2008December 9th, 2019No Comments

They all think I like my life
Bound as I am, by manicured front gardens
And uniformed red brick drives
BUT I DON’T.
Everything dusted and polished by the person,
That is the opposite of me; a body outside of itself.
My hate transcends itself into the pummelling,
Of cushions; in which I see their faces
Condescending in misguided ignorance.

…………………………

Toy’s inanimate without a guiding hand,
See me alone for the person I have become
An pitied orange; lost amid a bowl of ripe young fruit
Dried, shrivelled – devoid of its life sustaining juice.
With a mind damaged in a breakdown of confusion
Segmented, compartmentalised with no semblance of order.

…………………………

My eyes flick in silent annoyance; taking in,
In one sweep, the scattered cornflakes, a dropped schoolbook,
Lipstick smeared baby blush pink on the hall mirror.

…………………………

The book lies agape, an exercise in stick figures,
Of tangled straight lines, yet somehow disjointed
Set apart, the balance all wrong. The voice in my head,
Screams ‘where is the justice in this life of non reality!
I call out in despair to the alien reflection. ‘Help me’.

…………………………

The figures cross the page, forming a perfect family.
I fling the book from me in abject horror and revulsion
The ink now smudged by my helpless tears
Tears full of repressed guilt; spinning from eyes,
That see no future, no way ahead, no way out.

…………………………

Their HAS TO BE, a better place; an escape,
From this unremitting, torturous pain of false pretence.
A deathly calm; stills my shaking body.
I know now what must be done.

…………………………

The cushions sit plumped and whole,
Tonight; as the house breathes in suppression.
Its walls the only witness to my emergence,
From the chrysalis of self imposition.
I became a man again! I took control.
I made the decision. I made their choice.

…………………………

Dazzling lights play shadows on the wall
Unconsciousness; calling.
Incessant hammering on the door
Unconsciousness; deepening.
Concerned voices, rising, rising; anger.
I slip into a disturbed peace
It was all, all too late.
It was always too late.

Jan Hedger

Author Jan Hedger

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