Walking the Tightrope.

Welcome to the circus…


I decided to join the circus

Because it seemed like it would be fun.

The people were said to be magic;

The atmosphere was a loaded gun.

“I’m running away to the circus!”

I told both my parents with a grin.

They warned me to be oh so careful,

And make it back home to them again.

I wanted to learn how to juggle,

To walk a tight-rope and breathe fire.

I was lusting for an adventure;

Of magic I would never tire.

I never expected the falling,

The bruises, and the burns on my face.

I should have known right then and there

That the circus was not a safe place.

But the Ring-master was so charming,

And the old lions gave me no fright,

So I practiced walking the tight-rope,

Despite my growing fear of the height.

Confidence was like a second skin,

That I wore every time I’d rehearse.

Though what I did was nothing special,

There were certainly acts that were worse.

Time came for the circus to open;

I held my breath along with the crowd.

The glitter of the lights was too bright,

The cacophony of noise too loud.

My friends told me I shouldn’t go on,

And I should have heard their warning bell,

But I still went out on that tight-rope,

And I fell, and I fell, and I fell.


It’s Valentine’s Day, so here’s a poem that’s about love! Sort of.

If his kiss is a painkiller,

Then I am on a Benadryl high.

It feels kind of like a fever

Whenever his hand slides up my thigh.

He tastes quite a lot like morphine;

I don’t want his love for me to end.

If my sickness means he’ll stay here,

I’m sure I will never want to mend.

His touch is something like codeine,

And I’m in need of another dose.

No one dare flush him from my veins;

This is pain that you can’t diagnose.

Ticket Stubs

You with the black eyes,

It is really no surprise:

You’ve been smoking shit all night;

No longer such a pretty sight.

As your mascara runs down

Those supple little cheeks of yours;

Yesterday they liked you around,

But are you really, really sure?

And when it all fades out

To the background of this club,

Are you gonna be found out?

You’re used up like a ticket stub.

And in the pale strobe-lights

And the darkness creeping in,

Do they know about your secrets,

Do they know about you sins?

They pretend to know you,

But you won’t tell them a thing.

You’re living for the heroine

And they’re living for the bling.

Will they find out what a freak you are,

Will they act like nothing’s wrong?

Will they burn out like a fallen star,

And drown in this Bastille song?

Maybe they don’t know yet

That you’re such a fraud,

That you spend your daytimes

With music as your god.

But the lyrics will not heal you,

The beats won’t drown you out.

You cannot, will not be forgotten

Even if that’s what you want.

Satin Couches

Girls in extravagant dresses, twirling, whirling,

Spinning with theirs hands in the air.

Men in top-hats and over-coats, bowing, kneeling,

Gasping for the breath they have lost.

Butlers with fine black tails and thin, pasty-white skin,

Holding trays of delicacies.

The hosts bare gifts, necks weighed down by their necklaces,

Wrists weighed down by priceless bracelets.

Through the floor-to-ceiling window the sky is blue,

The clouds are white and quite fluffy.

The couches are satin, littered with emeralds,

Rubies, diamonds, gold and silver.

The orchestra plays their strings with thin, skilled fingers,

Their flutes and pipes with careful breath.

Pause; Rewind.

Girls in extravagant dresses, twirling, whirling,

Spinning with their hands in the air.

They are screaming, swords slowly edging towards their hearts;

There are guns pointed at their heads.

Men in top-hats, bowing before the enemy,

Grasping at the skirts of the girls.

Butlers with tails tucked between their legs just like dogs,

Holding empty trays up as shields.

The hosts’ necklaces are chains, as are their bracelets;

Their crimson smiles are made of blood.

There’s a dark gray storm on the horizon, growing,

Stretching out it’s blackened fingers.

The couches are satin, littered with emeralds;

Ironic death-beds for the damned.

The flutes slow and the pipes falter; the strings all pause;

Then the orchestra falls silent.