the crone

I am writing poetic pieces on the fleeting joys of family life.

Whilst missing out on my own family.

And being a moaning haggard harridan when I do see them.

I am prostituting my craft and soul for people to red line it,

scar it.

Chop it.

Hurt it.

Ah, poor me!

I am but a lost poet who needs to scrape and sing to buy food and shelter.

How I hate myself.

Turning tricks with words

I banter to put up the price

Sell a fantasy against your reality.

Flaunt and flirt

and flash temptation.

I can make you want it.

Desire it.

Buy it.

All whilst having a breakdown

in communication

with

myself

.