A lady from Boston once said to me,
“…Your voice is strong.”
I longed to believe her,
But at the time I was wet with wine
And drowning down a not so ‘Mystic River’©.
Shivering at 3 a.m. and 3 litres later,
I wake up with make up fors and must do’s;
Must choose which shoes carry this broken arse to work.
I’m a jerk when I’m drinking,
As my thinking goes grim.
I skim through sent messages
and there it is,
The woe is me, attention seeking, ‘drunk Tarns speaking’ cry for help…
This lady from Boston does not get lost in
the hopelessness and misery –
In fact, she offers to meet up with me,
another time for a cup of tea on The Terrace…
There has been changes since then
And there for a bit,
my voice lay dormant.
The tormented, intoxicated being everyone was seeing,
was not who I wanted to be.
Breathe, Tarns…
…Breathe.
I took some time,
Adjusted the rhymes and the rhythm,
within removing a nectar proving
I was making a spectacle out of myself
under this alcoholic spell…
No longer I dwell in this debauched depression.
This lady from Boston,
She made quite an impression!
My confessions now have conviction,
My inflections and diction
no longer afflicted
with sick,
Slurred, words.
Thanks, lady from Boston,
Hope you heard.
