These are strange times:

We delve for words and pictures,

Held in a lake at the back of our heads,

We climb social mountains,

Sometimes fall flat on our face and wither.



Others when we feel lonely in 4 wall-territory,

or when we can feel crowded by too many eyes;

Feel sad when those are lost,

And swallow down the guilty pleasures, all at once;

One and too many,

Stop us from breathing,

Stop us from becoming inarticulate and from looking at those pictures,

Underneath the surface, and held beneath the pillow.



Pip x