Spill

I found myself, sitting on that shelf
Somewhere between ‘Rights Of Passage’ and ‘Before I die’

As I peered down from that shelf to the street below
It seemed such a long way, a long way down, but further back

The smell of those bygone moments floated across the air
The smell of amber leaf and yeast

The smell of bravado and ego cocktails
Of vengeance dripping from a bleeding nose

Of petrol head and patchouli stained clothes
Of Nan’s home made fish cakes and of a heroin pose

The street sprang up at me
The way a cobra snake uncoils

The nerves in my body awoke me
And I got a clear scent of blood and soil

And then peace…All the feelings jumped out from in me
And all the thoughts sat finally still

And on the footpath that struck out from below me
Was where that glass half empty did spill


If ever there was proof that our thoughts are not facts, let this be it. I had thoughts of suicide today, even though I am just fine. If it weren’t for my new found acceptance of myself, of thoughts and of feelings and if I still was a drinker and drug taker, who knows what might have happened? If you read this in a state of inner turmoil, just consider this. Thoughts are simply thoughts. They are not facts. You don’t need to act upon them.


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