Here’s a poem I wrote today, with the maudlin voice of Philip Larkin in my head. I’ve included one of my favourites of his below, which is on the same topic as mine: isolation.
Side by side we lay in bed;
I tried to crawl inside your head.
‘Too dangerous’, you warned,
‘Too dark to see.
There’s things you won’t like
inside of me’.
I dragged them out;
I had to see.
You felt more lust for her than me.
When will I learn to let things be?
The hardest thing to take, for me,
Was never hate but apathy.
Talking In Bed
Talking in bed ought to be easiest,
Lying together there goes back so far,
An emblem of two people being honest.
Yet more and more time passes silently.
Outside, the wind’s incomplete unrest
Builds and disperses clouds in the sky,
And dark towns heap up on the horizon.
None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why
At this unique distance from isolation
It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not untrue and not unkind.