A Piece of Glass

If I reached out my hand,

I’d be able to touch it, feel it,

If once I touch it, I’d know it was real,

I could not pretend any more,

If I shut my eyes and screw them up,

If I think very hard of something else,

If I drink enough to forget for a while,

Then I can pretend for a moment it’s just a dream,

A dream I dreamt a long time ago,

A memory of something which doesn’t exist,

Pictures of an event that never happened,

A reality that’s twisted beyond what could ever be,

If I breath out deeply I have to stop,

And look at the mist that hangs in the air,

Hangs in between me and my mind,

Stops me from touching the things that I see,

My breath is mist on a piece of glass,

It lets me see, it lets me look,

But keeps inside so I can’t touch,

Helps me pretend it isn’t there,

It’s like knitting a jumper without any wool,

Baking a cake without any flour,

Drawing a picture without any paper,

Learning to fly when you don’t have wings,

If you don’t have a magnifier you can’t see the spot,

If you don’t have a watch you can’t tell the time,

If you don’t have a dictionary you can’t find the word,

If I can’t touch the picture I can’t know it’s real,

A crack is forming round the edge of the glass,

Round the edge of my mind it’s showing colour,

Red is staining my black and white,

The nightmares in my head are becoming real,

If I crack the glass there’s no protection,

If I crack the glass there’s no pretending,

If I crack the glass I’ll feel it’s real,

If I crack the glass I’ll be living the nightmares,

As I punch my fist, through the glass wall of protection,

The canvas becomes flesh, the paint becomes blood,

The pieces of glass from my picture of pretence,

Mark fresh paths of blood across the scars on my arm,

The glass must be broken, the nightmares be lived,

The painting become live, the truth be known,

I must feel the pictures, know them in the daylight,

I must watch the trickle of blood and touch what is real.