Image fromLIFE
He sits alone amid the mangled sheet,
pale corpse of himself, eyes shot red;
awake for days without the need for sleep.
Awaits the last sharp fix to come and sweep
from him the hell inside his head.
He bleeds alone amid the mangled sheet,
the tracks leave scars and the wounds run deep.
Shoots again the pain that keeps him spread
awake for days without the need for sleep.
He weeps inside the tears he can't secrete.
Syringes, puke and filth surround the bed;
he shits alone amid the mangled sheet.
No friends, no dreams venture down his street,
just endless hours and fear of that dread
awake for days without the need for sleep.
Highs, lows, rushes, shakes - incomplete
snapped life hung by a single thread.
He dies alone amid the mangled sheet,
awake for days but now its time for sleep.
Suzi
My first attempt at a Villanelle or a 'Villain Elle' as Nicky in my writing class calls them (can you guess she's not a fan!). Very tricky, both in following a set form and finding suitable subject matter. Where on earth this came from I do not know - it's not from personal experience. I apologise for the depressing topic, no light little ditty's from me.
