Head of Wood – Written Tuesday 1st February 2022 (Aged 46)

Head of Wood

the diagnosis, for me,
it was no good
and their head,
was clearly made of wood
and i lacked experience,
to make sense,
of the storm i found myself in
nightmares on my stage
but billed as dreams
oh, such a sad age
glass partitions of expectation
drowning out my screams
the world around me
felt like it was stained
but it was me,
self destructing,
and taking it apart
i hope it went well
but all those years ago
they landscaped,
my own personal hell
i left one person behind
as i watched my fear overflow
and lose the contents of my mind
now when i look back
there is no disparity
i can see it,
with a latter day clarity
the diagnosis stripped out my knees
and, now, all these years later
i wonder if they still have a head of wood

James Garratt – Tuesday 1st February 2022

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More poems from 2022 here

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