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Betsy Laroo

of

Fife, Scotland, UK

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A string of cliches

by

Betsy Laroo

The stillness of the sound,
it's feeding like a drip,
Oh life's a funny old thing.
Planes drone overhead,
Seas lap the dirty shores,
It's just a string of cliches.
My hands are bored,
My heart's overgrown,
It doesn't know where to go.
I've got a fissure inside,
It gets deeper every time,
Whenever I try to move.
Upwards and outwards,
I'm scrambling upwards,
And outwards,
Now...
And the crack is growing,
It's growing in... to me.
Oh how do you stop,
what's already started?
How to stop a freight train?


A string of cliches

by

Betsy Laroo

The stillness of the sound,
it's feeding like a drip,
Oh life's a funny old thing.
Planes drone overhead,
Seas lap the dirty shores,
It's just a string of cliches.
My hands are bored,
My heart's overgrown,
It doesn't know where to go.
I've got a fissure inside,
It gets deeper every time,
Whenever I try to move.
Upwards and outwards,
I'm scrambling upwards,
And outwards,
Now...
And the crack is growing,
It's growing in... to me.
Oh how do you stop,
what's already started?
How to stop a freight train?

Wanderer

by

Betsy Laroo

What if I wanted to get away?
The suburbs of New York,
A rattling subway train.
Staring out at structures,
Zipping by in sickly grey,
Listening to the radio waves.
My heart keeps squeezing,
In my cavern chest,
My eyes keep seeing.
The music keeps on.
And I sigh.
I sigh.