That bloody clock!
ticking away, oblivious
to the tension stretching
my larynx to breaking point,
reminding my throat
how fucking dry it is
without Vocalzone – my finger,
pointed up when she said
she’d bloody do it.
Rhiannon knew it was
a bit too much to expect
after her long hibernation,
but loved her never-the-less;
hopes, memories and failed dreams.
Sing.
Warm my little husky chops and
Put on a show, but no
it is not this day.
Falsetto minor slapped back
and bit me, packed up
and packed a fucking sad.
Portsmith Club won’t be looking for
quirky.
I’d need to practice
for a month of bloody Sunday’s
before Stevie Nicks invites me back
to her condo for a soireè.
I did her too,
I’ve done her a thousand times
belting out vibrato
in A minor.
Here I am ‘pick me, pick me’
I could sing,
I feel so lonely without her.
My happy place no more.
It’s like dying
a savage kind of
musical death and I’m so scared.
Who can be bothered with a
washed-out-has-been-old-girl
from New Zealand.
I’ll just stay at home
feel sorry for myself a bit more
and cry myself to sleep.
Poetry Out West 
Yes. Ageing can be cruel and that fear is very real but that too is a state of mind. I’m reinventing myself – again, and looking forward to a new musical chapter embracing my maturity. I think I have a lot more left to give. It’s exciting because I’m resonating deeper, and that transformation is a very welcome step in the right direction. My music may not be what it was, but it still is my happy place and so I will persist. It’s a painful but necessary process.
LikeLike
Those things that make us happy and they are our personal belongings, inside a box of intimacy. When we grow up and get older, It seems that we become invisible for many people. And this fear of losing our identity is spelling away by our pretty beloved things.
LikeLiked by 1 person