by James Byrne

I was sick of home, now i’m Homesick;
a serious case of the human condition.

Small town suffocation.
We held asphyxiation parties: choked our youth in a
haze of alcohol, drugs and cigarette smoke.

Living for the weekend – but each one weakened us,
I couldn’t take it anymore.

But now, nostalgic bedbugs bite at night.
The smallest things can hurt the most.

Memories, like cluster-headaches, ignite
bright signal fires home;
Cutting through the darkness.

Sharpened on the whetstone, night after night,
cutting so deeply.

I don’t mind that much.

But, when time entombs them with just placards to
explain them, I fear I’ll stop feeling them.



James Byrne is a business writer by trade and a creative writer for fun. The British-born former newspaper journalist moved to Malta two years ago to pursue a new career in iGaming and tries to pen down verses whenever the muses come a-calling. His poetry is rooted in introspective (and hopefully not too neurotic) reflections, which he mainly enjoys bringing to life with unapologetically loud performance pieces. His biggest literary influences come from the Beat Generation from writers such as Ginsberg, Bukowski and Kerouac and also from the Confessional school of poetry, specifically the poets John Berryman and Gertrude Stein.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s