Author's Note: This poem is of a sensitive subject matter, and includes violence.
Staircases, Doctor says,
Are never good ways,
To deal with the aftermath of split Johnnies.
Or spilt coffee.
Or thin, pink lines.
But you think otherwise- best to deal with them with clenched hands.
Ignore my cries.
Sort it like a hard man,
With a shove (just once is enough)
Then I fall, head throbbing as it hits the floor.
My sobbing, your sorries(always sorry),
Another mistake avoided for good.
Another fresh speck of my blood on the wood.
Another lost baby,
More accident stories-
There have been less sorries.
So tell me, Hard Man, while I've still strength to stand.
How many hits do you want me to take?
How many more falls do you want me to fake?
How many more bones are you hoping to break?
Fine, don't answer me Hard Man.
But just so you know,
At nine, when you go to booze,
I'll go for something too.
One bullet, Hard Man, just for you.
And then, when you come stumbling in... And see the gun In my hand- my right, twice-broken hand.
And then, your mouth will grow wide as the shot slides through the black air to you and down your throat.
I can do it, I know I can.
You'll dye the red-specked carpet scarlet.
Then we'll see how tough you are.
You hard, Hard Man.
I honestly haven't got a clue where this came from. Having said that, if anyone is in this sort of situation then please get help. If you're in England, you can google phone Refuge at 0808 2000 247, or if you're a man you can call The Men's Advice Line at 0808 801 0327.
Any criticism for this poem is welcome and encouraged. Thanks for reading.