Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

All I want is some peace and quiet,
And for those trains to stop running through my head;
As I close my eyes
And lie here,
Bathing in broken glass;
Rubbing the shards into my skin,
To watch the blood, red, flow
Onto the pure, sterile white, enamel.
My veins cry out in ecstasy,
As they are ravaged by the sharpness;
And they open freely,
Welcoming the air as it stings
And takes away the noises in my head;
As they just scream, louder and louder,
Making my heart beat faster and faster,
Until the train crashes and I can relax.

I rip the child-proof cap off and look inside,
A mist magically appears before my eyes
And I see fairies and sprites fly around me;
Their wings beating noiselessly and they speak;
In a strange language that only I can understand,
They make me feel warm;
And for a few short seconds I feel good;
In the knowledge that everything is going to be okay,
In my feather-pillow world,
So vulnerable, so wonderful, so fragile,
So short-lived.

Where this leads to I haven’t figured out just yet;
But I’m still working on it;
And I’m not ready to give it up just yet,
So long as the tooth fairy keeps looking under my pillow every
                                                                                            night,
As I dream the dreams to keep the bad things away,
The things that look back at me in the mirror;
With menacing eyes and scars on their faces;
Which never seem to heal and drip with infection.
Their skin flakes off at the slightest touch;
And the stench is a familiar stench,
It is the smell of decay, dead bodies and neglect,
Like a gravestone adorned with rotting roses,
The love of a loved one slowly choking,
Gasping for breath,
As the head goes limp,
Turns to dust and blows away with the wind to a faraway place,
Where the vultures carry you to your final destination.

A place where you can walk barefoot on a razorblade;
And it feels good,
As the tendons dangle from your feet,
Reaching out to the clouds in the sky,
Who just look down upon you and laugh,
For truly you must be a comedian,
As everyone and everything laughs at you,
You can hear it in the trees,
The flowing rivers, the birdsongs,
They all carry the laughter with then,
Wherever they go,
Wherever you go,
You look around and see pointing figures,
Accusing, gesturing, ridiculing,
As you try your best,
Which never seems enough,
And you pray for some peace and quiet,
As you bathe in broken glass.