New Order Disorder

Stuck in the mud; the heart is a-thud.

Another dud.

The tightening throat; tangled in knots.

Edit, revise, delete, repeat.

Sticking in loops; nauseating mud soup.

Shattered mind in broken tongue; where had it all begun?

Shards slashing on the way down.

Dead letters nestling in; stinging nettles grow within.

Type again, reply, no don’t…

Wait, that’s wrong!

Too much? Too little? Too dam late!

Let it go…

Letters in the grave; need to be ‘brave.’

Stick a label on it; Depression

Change the address.

Oodles of mess; time eclipsed by so much ‘missed.’

Misrepresented, mistimed, misdiagnosis, misunderstood, missed.

Return to sender 30 years later…

Wrong label, here’s a new one; ASD

New order from the so-called Disorder.

(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved.

Subway

One cannot avoid eye contact when entombed within the old musky tube. Dank, dark. As if being underground wasn’t torture enough. Everything so close. Restricted air flow, foot flow, low flow. All so close to burying you alive. Suffocating amongst concrete, dirt, strangers and metal. Any second it could all cave in and one of them could catch my eye…

© Natasha Sinclair