Indieoma

When she was thirty
It was a very dismal year.
It was a year for a burnt out corporate girl,
Who spent dark lonely nights
Hid away from the lights
In a cold concrete northern European city.
When she was thirty.


When she was thirty
It was a hard year.
It was a year for a formerly employed London girl,
Who was forced to live on German welfare.
Who’s life slowly came to a grind
As boredom slowly diseased her mind.
When she was thirty.


When she was thirty
It was an inevitable year,
For a girl playing the role of girlfriend
Who’s relationship came to a predictable end.
Choosing to settle for a un-formidable fellow who never did know,
That she had cheated on him not just once, but several times before.
When she was thirty.


When she was thirty
It was a challenging year.
It was a challenging year for a girl with cyclothymia
Compulsively rearranging her room.
Started to fall into her regular fits of anxiety and doom
Writing list after list after list,
Struggling to control these phases and fits.
When she was thirty.


When she was thirty
It was a very surreal year.
A year her estranged father nearly died.
But she wasn’t sure if it was true or if again he had lied.
Not that it bothered her much,
Indifference is the trump card of losing touch.
When she was thirty.


When she was thirty
It was a revealing year.
A year she bent down to her more violent need.
In a drunken stupor did concede,
To a near stranger to strike her raw
whilst making love to her on the kitchen floor.
When she was thirty.


But now the days grow dark, and the last days of the year draw near.
And though it was 365 days of mania and meaning devoid.
And though all her ideas and beliefs she once held are now destroyed.
She was surprised to realise it freed her of fear.
And it poured through her sweet and clear,
That she was captain of her own ship named liberty.
When she was thirty.


It was a mess of a good year.