Con­sider me

Bereft

At a loss

Stabbing my palm

With the point of my pen

Tread­ing water

Just filling a page

Con­sider me

Aged six­teen

The back of my eyes

Burned in the light

Sent me dizzy

And hot

The air exploded with hope

Like the bloke

From Shawshank

In the rainstorm

But I was doused

By the drench of displeasure

The page is wet

My pen won’t work

So I stab my palm

With the point of my pen

Con­sider me

When did I last

Fill in a page

To the bottom

Am I wait­ing for this page to start

Or was it full

Already

And I smudged it out with my hand

Con­sider me

Bereft

At a loss

With a blank damp page

And a bleeding

Palm

Mat­thew Bionic is a pau­per and occa­sional writer liv­ing in the miser­able leafy sub­urbs of Manchester. He lives off skinny lattes and toasted leaf­lets. Bionic has writ­ten under a pseud­onym in news­pa­pers (lots of times) and magazines (some­times) and is a failed stand-up comedian. You can read more on his blog, Ghosts On The Road­side.