A Plant That Grows

On T.V. I see the poppies grow
Between the stalks I see the ghosts
Acquaintances, lovers, enemies, friends
Strange how an innocent plant brought about their ends

At many times it nearly killed me too
Slumped choking, pin-eyed, turning blue
But I managed to swim against the stream
Pull myself painfully out of the dream

Too many I knew didn’t survive
Their families stood crying by the graveside
The earth fell to the coffin from out of their hands
Because of a plant that grows in Afghanistan

Struggling farmers grow it to keep their families alive
Smugglers carry it across the waters wide
Every mile that it travels, the price it inflates
It ends up on an English council estate

Shoplifters and burglars walk the grey, rainy streets
When it grows dark, the working girls pound their beat
Warily watching through windows, dealers do what they can
Selling powder from a plant that grows in Afghanistan

It’s Over

So this is what it comes down to, it’s over
It always eventually comes down to this
Every up has a down, every high a hangover
Sparkling Champagne turns to cloudy yellow piss

And love, a love I thought was forever
A woman I worshipped, we’d age like fine wine
What I thought solid as oak, was as changeable as weather
The grapes of our love, they died on the vine

I am no good at this, I shouldn’t have tried
I think I’m just destined to end up alone
When what we had was stabbed in the back till it died
Who shrugged it off, not me. I was cut to the bone

And the hurt makes every waking moment a nightmare
Wandering lost in a made of guilt and self-hate
She’s got someone else and the thrill of a new affair
Alone I shudder when I think of my future, my fate

Us And Them

Why for some does it seem so fucking easy ?
This life ?
This assortment of abominations
The constant parade of petty problems
And inconsequential indignities
Bad relationships
Job losses
Loneliness
Drunken embarrassments
Heartache
Heartbreak
Or just ennui
But for some it seems
A stroll in the park
Endless sunshine
No empty pockets
Always happy, in love
Everyone in love with them
Or more importantly
Their loving themselves

I’m sure that
It can’t really be this way
Perhaps they cry at night
In lonely rooms,
After presenting
Such a facade to the world
I prefer to think that
They simply don’t feel
Cement, concrete
Cold fucking stone
WE feel
Don’t we ?

Inspiration

Drowning myself in cheap liquor
To try to get to that place quicker
The place where words and ideas flow
The place I where I always long to go
Words flow quickly through my head
The phrases that I want to get
I can’t get there with a straight head
I add ingredient to myself instead
The disordering of the senses from Rimbaud
That is where I want to go
To the palace of wisdom, down the road of excess
Is where I want to go next
But there are so many casualties
Who have tried to go this way before me
Your senses cannot be saved
If you’re six feet in your grave
But it’s still the place I want to go
The only inspiration that I know

Ian Lewis Copestick is a writer from Stoke on Trent, England. He is 45 years old and unemployed, this means that life can be tough but at least gives him time to write.