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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.

 

© 2018 JAMES BYRNE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

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.
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