Personal Histories

I’m digging in soil
for the story of moist
and back stories

Called personal histories
burning bushes where
I maybe purified
of validated
being back in the human
again, where the ghosts
are all dead
the colour of bra’s
and knickers
called personal mysteries

again back stories
that didn’t give a damn

About my plan
then the unexpected
playful dirt soil
I already want to
knock on 1 Dampier
Street and tell the man
have you made this
house better, safer
exorcised my father’s
anger, or the ghost of the man
who died in loss, after his
wife passed

I felt odd in Allingham road
another trepid home coming
even though it was a party
no amount of beer, could keep
me from walking and planning
not returning

Personal histories and home
comings are rancid reminders
that there was no home coming queen
for me just a room and a camp bed
make shift best that could be done
under such circumstances
there is no denying it
I fucked up this time



10 thoughts on “Personal Histories”

  1. This poem is very, very good, but it is painful and it just makes me want to give you a big cuddle. I am no longer able to comment on quality of poetry when it comes to you, just feelings.

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