It all started with a pen to a page,
and a notebook with a fluffy pink cover.
A poet taking her first steps.
Write your first word- don't say it.
It all started with a message.
"I like your glasses."
"I've seen you before."
Yes, we have met, shaken hands and, stolen glances,
In a past life we were friends,
in the present, maybe more.
It all started with just one innocent puff.
I wanted to know the taste of menthol.
Then I was stood in a Tesco express,
shaky voice,
asking for Marlboro reds because Amy Winehouse used them as leverage once and I could afford them back then.
Now there's a scar from a fag end on the back of my right hand and an emptiness in the other.
My palms are vacant, like my eyes only some days.
When the sun is shining and people are smiling and I feel like I'm meant to be some type of way.
The sun beats down on my chubby cheeks and why aren't I smiling?
Why can't I feel happy?
But why don't I feel sad?
When I can't feel,
I can't remember that I ever did.
Am I an impostor in my own life?
A writer with no words to say,
nothing in my head.
I'll grow old, penniless, and nostalgic,
Keep poking the scar on my hand,
unless I wake up again.
