I’ve been sitting in this chair
for what feels like eternity
this crusty, scabby armchair
with spiders’ webs for decor
and the scent of mustard-soaked dirty socks
dripping their Dijon all over the fabric
they might end up burying me in this chair
epitaph reading “Killed by The Game”
long sleeves fingering the armrest
gripping on for dear life
like I’m on some sort of rickety ghost train.
I’ve spent more time waiting for you
than I have queuing at Tesco in my whole life
I was promoted quicker
I graduated quicker
than the time it’s taken you to reach out.
Hungry regret is eating away at me
rage bubbles like bone broth
loneliness creeps in
offering up its bitter taste
(if that’s all you bring to the table, then forget it)
I’m on this eternal cosmic pogo stick
yo-yoing to and fro to the rhythm
of that beep, buzz, ring.
I’m full of what ifs, I’m bleeding desperation
and fumbling about for reasons in my mind’s dust
completely invented, untrue
you’re about as clear as clouds
leaving me to create my own weather.
All I can say is it’s stormy and wet
and I want to leave this armchair
before I start to decay
loneliness keeps me locked in
while the floor floods with a sea of what ifs
the eye of heartbreak drawing closer and closer
and swiftly punching me in the jaw.