I wouldn't worry about that, Peanut. By then people'll prob'ly be driving Buicks to the moon.
Megs kathleen
@sonderksy
the monster
With her desolate soul
Ill-omened pain
Turned her dark
Into little mosaic deaths
Never to appear
Bloody addiction
Would she hunt
Meeting with ghosts
A woman wasted
A world into herself
Nothing but -
She would wish for
A dampened flame
Hanging jester
She would scream
Of fractured injustices
Drove her out of her head
Wine and sickness
Out I’d devote
For her to see
The death of me
She created
A woman
Deceased under the glass.
the mother
She always ran
Searching for
The bottle
Her eyes screamed
For a new dawn
Her hands possess
Dark and menacing
She was diseased
At her core
Grave indelicacy
In need for
A painless death
Or a dying light
Her heart a
Less ordinary disaster
Into abysmal nothingness
The truth even
At the end
Did she work
Overtime in hell
She witnessed
The definitive version
Of me
Ran straight into death
Megs Kathleen is a Liverpool based poet, carving her works from the subtle ache of a mother wound, the sheer grit of working- class life and the delicate art of survival within a broken world. She is influenced by the true spirit of the beatnik generation. Within her works she explores braised truths, tender chaos, heartaches, the fatality of mental health, parents in alcoholism and fighting the right wing.