In amougst the clutter I found this

Hello!

 I was going through some files on my laptop and I found this poem, or the workings of. I wrote it a few months back, it was originally intended for a show that was going to take place in Edinburgh but never did. Instead it was scrapped. This piece was a found in amongst the rubbish stored on my laptop. Much like the messy room I mention, which, at the time of writing it'snt so bad...

PARANOIA'S PRIORITIES

Mechanically spun I'm dizzy.

She leads,

I follow.

Reading and re-reading every text and email I've ever received,

regarding her,

and me.

I sit drinking my tea trying not to think,

but it's futile.

Sat on my black leather chair,

by my bed,

laptop on my legs,

leaning forward so my back bends and eventually hurts,

phone in my left hand,

tea in my right.

The only thing missing is a desk,

and a bedroom,

that looks and feels like a bedroom,

rather than a storage space,

for cardboard boxes and crates,

stacked in corners,

and letters from the bank,

strewn across the floor with yesterdays clothes.

Still,

my trainers look nice,

box fresh Nikes,

parked by my bed like a porshe in the drive,

at a dive of a home.

I was always crap at getting my priorities right.

Temporary accommodation,

belonging to my parents,

sleeping in the room on the other side of the wall.

27 and I can't find the feet I'm supposed to stand on.

I'm sure my Dad is proud.

My Mum worries.

I worry.

I'm worried now,

though not for the fact,

that I lack employment, prospects and a pension,

it's because,

I'm stressing,

about her.

Priorities again.

I look at my mug and just about make out my face's reflection,

I wonder which face is starring at a mug.

I bring up an email.

Take a gulp of my tea.

Her few words on the screen ask more questions of me.

“I'm busy right now talk next week”

Not even a question mark.

A statement.

I’m worried I've stepped in the ring with someone twice my weight and punching range.

Paranoia breeds every time she speaks.

I'm trying to second guess her tactics,

but she's like Jose Morinouio,

and I'm Tony Pulis,

route one is all I have,

she's capable of switching the way she plays at any given moment.

She can raise and lower my hopes,

with the tone of her voice,

or the lack of syntax in an email or a text message.

She mechanically control’s the mental mechanisms responsible for manufacturing paranoia,

as chemicals loose there balance inside my brain.

I can hear my Mum downstairs calling my name.

It's dinner time,

she shouts.

I'm not done re-reading my emails,

and texts.

Analysing them to death

Priorities again.