Geor-Geor-Binksh21

Who am I to believe, in this life? He, who makes my heart beat a little faster Whenever I feel his hand brushing gently against mine? Or She, my who has made my world no bigger than the Two storeys of our house? Or They, these incessant, nameless voices Echoing in my brain? This bombardment of intelligeable Noise exists Without a single person having to open their mouth. The bitter taste and harsh burn at the back of my throat that is Alcohol dulls and silences nothing, (For The Noise merely grows confused, slurred, and, angered at my Futile attempts to quieten it, Proceeds to batter the walls of my skull. At least, that's what hangovers fee

The silver birches sway In the gentle breeze. Their bark, hanging in shreds, Crisp and as white as fresh paper. Their colour is lost, however, Against the dullness of the endless grey sky, Looming ominously above the heads of Those children, constantly at play, Whose homes have shut their doors Fast, As if never to allow them entry. The window is my most powerful ally; It shows me what I want to see, What perhaps I shouldn't see. I am a mere spectator viewing The beauty of the world performing In the theatre that is life. The eyes of the dark haired girl stare back at mine, Which are identical. What once left me amused and somewhat perplexe