Toria's World of Writing

It isn’t water resting in the veins of turning leaves.

It isn’t an old history book hidden behind a brick wall.

It isn’t cups of tea while watching Grey’s Anatomy.

It isn’t fire in the waste paper basket in a derelict school.

It isn’t scrawled graffiti on the side of a subway car.

It isn’t frozen peach daiquiris, slackened inhibitions.

It isn’t the scent of cinnamon buns freshly baked and warm.

It isn’t an acoustic guitar played in an empty room.

It isn’t strips of morning sunlight falling through gaps in curtains.

It isn’t the cool tingle of after-sun lotion on sunburnt skin.

It is everything and more.

Filling lungs with smoke

From those cheap menthol cigarettes.

Filling blood with alcohol,

From over-priced cocktails at the old bar.

Filling minds with words,

Meaningless lies from a mouth once kissed.

Order in a chain of disorder,

peeling carpet on a discoloured ceiling.

Ham sandwiches planted with bluebells,

growing pigs from the dirt.

Careless hands scrabbling at zippers,

finding a heart in an unacceptable place.

Water flavoured with cherries and pork,

fed to a house of catwalk models.

Painkillers in a Caesar salad (dressing on the side please),

an addict’s breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Fake blonde mothers downing bottles of rum at 10am,

fleeing from their Hamptons perfect reality.

14 year old girls getting high off nail polish,

drinking alcopops in a fort made of sheets.