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Enter Poem or Quote (Required) Her Life defined by the size of potatoes in a supermarket trolley. She opens her battered purse out of shape from the coppers of life, viewed with despair from eyes embedded in the bags of time. Self-esteem abandoned in discoloured trainers. Her contaminated cheap cider mind still clings to the fog of that special day, when she gave herself to him. The doll that came to life In dreams that found a prince. Sweet anticipation was the nectar of being and forever had found immortality in the quest for life. But this flower was envied by the weeds jealousy was rife amongst the onlookers. The detritus who once shared her life now whisper their poison into her veins. Jealousy is a lonely place for them and hate cannot spell love. For love is a need beyond the individual and evil must walk alone. She was s a bride of the damned Immersed in a punk rock dream. But dreams turned into nightmares and she was spit on by the culture which became her jail. Anarchy came from the womb obedience came from poverty and know your place came from the hand she loved. Silence was now her existence. Daddy never told her fairy tales have no god. Her prince became a frog a drone who hated is lot and she became the witch that trapped him. Made him the victim of Grimm's tales Which cast him down the yellow brick road of unbrushed teeth and brown. Whose fists shattered the crystal ball of happy ever after, to be baptized in the liquid sea of Stella and pools of emerald vomit. To bite this apple needs no witches poison. Addiction is anonymous as a wave on the ocean knowing that death will come when it reaches land, knowing that this is the fate of all refugees who abandons their lifejacket to oblivion. We are all jumpers cleaning the windows of tomorrow hoping to avoid the ledge of life. Though in our hearts there is a desire to step off into uncertainty for we all crave that moment , when we are truly free. Some will leave this life in anger others will give their life to peace, these are the survivors. But the victims The Jeremy Kyle’s entourage will strip their soul one petal at a time In the act of do not remember me. We are all born into fairy tales the dice of chaos decides the memory. And for those who take the time, take the time to see the artist at work, will recognise the beings that walks past us every day. The stranger who buys the small potatoes With a purse full of coppers. Spending what is left of their existence In the supermarket that we call life.
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