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Location: Dublin, Republic of, Ireland

Monday, 4 December 2006

Am feeling sad. I couldn't pretend otherwise.
This has nothing to do with my picture-book rejection. Please! No, this is something else.
A thunderclap came along and stole my soul.
So now, I may have died a little.
I am a billowing curtain in the shadowed light, a black prism shut into myself.

But the poetry. I wrote these incredibly dark poems in my early 20s and then it eluded me for the longest time. A poem like yesterday's.
And this morning when I didn't want to wake up, these were the words that shot into my heart:

(The character & objects are fictional - I don't smoke - but the sadness is real.)
And not to worry. I'm still buried deeply in my play & will run some script by you all, soon.)

I look for a corner, curled
up like a cat,
and ready to die...
I poke at the edges
my bent claws, my
heartbeat feels
like clutching at
straws, and even
the cracked cement
will have nothing
to do
with me. My breath
stale, the
sickly smell of wine
and tobacco reek,
bad company like a
grunting homeless
Mesmerised, the
watching walls
protest, their signed
petition - a poison
mural and
decry the folly of
my existence, yet
sticking up their
noses to my promised
resurrection. I
curl up, suddenly
smaller in size
then I ever was
but my swollen
heart still grieving,
still growing,
until the lamplight
lullabies off at
last, as dim
as nightlight, so
sharply painful
yet cradling me
the dying
- susan abraham -

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