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Poetry from within
   

A Wreath of Teddy Bears

Jan has requested that you read the statement at the bottom of the page first


They all think I like my life

Bound as I am, by manicured front gardens

And uniformed red brick drives

BUT I DON’T.

Everything dusted and polished by the person,

That is the opposite of me; a body outside of itself.

My hate transcends itself into the pummelling,

Of cushions; in which I see their faces

Condescending in misguided ignorance.



…………………………



Toy’s inanimate without a guiding hand,

See me alone for the person I have become

An pitied orange; lost amid a bowl of ripe young fruit

Dried, shrivelled – devoid of its life sustaining juice.

With a mind damaged in a breakdown of confusion

Segmented, compartmentalised with no semblance of order.



…………………………



My eyes flick in silent annoyance; taking in,

In one sweep, the scattered cornflakes, a dropped schoolbook,

Lipstick smeared baby blush pink on the hall mirror.



…………………………



The book lies agape, an exercise in stick figures,

Of tangled straight lines, yet somehow disjointed

Set apart, the balance all wrong. The voice in my head,

Screams ‘where is the justice in this life of non reality!

I call out in despair to the alien reflection. ‘Help me’.



…………………………



The figures cross the page, forming a perfect family.

I fling the book from me in abject horror and revulsion

The ink now smudged by my helpless tears

Tears full of repressed guilt; spinning from eyes,

That see no future, no way ahead, no way out.



…………………………



Their HAS TO BE, a better place; an escape,

From this unremitting, torturous pain of false pretence.

A deathly calm; stills my shaking body.

I know now what must be done.



…………………………



The cushions sit plumped and whole,

Tonight; as the house breathes in suppression.

Its walls the only witness to my emergence,

From the chrysalis of self imposition.

I became a man again! I took control.

I made the decision. I made their choice.



…………………………



Dazzling lights play shadows on the wall

Unconsciousness; calling.

Incessant hammering on the door

Unconsciousness; deepening.

Concerned voices, rising, rising; anger.

I slip into a disturbed peace

It was all, all too late.

It was always too late.




Jan Hedger




Poem Background info: Statement
I have just finished this new poem. It has been a challenge and a
difficult thing to do - due to the nature of its meaning and has taken
time in its writing as I could only visit it, in short bursts. But I
knew I needed to write it.
It arose from a workshop where we were asked to look into the opposite
of ourselves, to look into a darker, deeper meaning. All the recent
tragedies in the upsurge of men, killing not only themselves but
taking their family with them, had been taking up a large part of my
mind, and it was this darkness, that spoke to me that day. The
terrible tragedy of it all - everyone asking why? No one can answer
all the questions, if the questions are not asked.