a Lighthouse cliché
lighting the way through
storm ravaged emotional seas,
fourteen pence therapy,
not calling you drunk in the middle of the night
incoherent emails or tears to regret
the moment they spill out
tell tale tracks in foundation face cracks.
This is not a pen but
tether to reality as insecurity
takes hold but I’m pulled
through mist into bliss and
shades of awareness more real than this.
This is not a pen
but a blank cheque, writing itself
adding on zero’s with books on the shelf
noiseless tick tock narration of the day
detailing minutiae of the fake
celeb star wannabe me.
This is not a pen.
© Aisling Doherty