This is an oldie, but possibly a goodie. I wrote this piece in my first year of university as I was diving in feet first to the writing world, and I still felt the strong urge to rhyme when I wrote a poem. Cringe.
Nevertheless, I feel as though this one tells a story and I’m enjoying the imagery. And this blog is all about self-progression, so we’re sharing it. Hope you enjoy it.
As always, remember to leave your thoughts in the comments below.
Sally and Sy
The day I loaned Sy four hundred quid,
he took it without a second thought,
bet with it, drank it, wasted it, rid.
No idea what it was he bought.
“I’ll pay you back.” promised, Sy.
“Cross my heart, hope to die.”
If it be for that, I won’t loan him none,
With poison like that, he’d soon be gone.
Turns out, Sy didn’t need a relapse
or a night on the run, high, careless.
Paying for his previous, they said
“With interest”, he’d be fearless.
Sy, he hadn’t got enough,
for times were tough, and
I loaned him too few, and
his payments… shortly due.
In an alleyway was his grave,
negotiating with life-grabbing beasts,
grovelling for life, like that of a slave
Sy was shot; I was left to grieve.
They all ran, money in their pockets,
leaving my only Sy, in my photo locket.
I should have protected him from the world:
from the ugliness, that had him killed.
I walk past that alleyway, every night.
I dream that if only I had given him more,
he might still be with me and his father.
My light, stays on in case he visits,
so he can see how much I miss him
and that I’m sorry for what he got in.
With hidden pain, my husband says,
“Sally, don’t bleed guilt, Honey.”
he’s in a much safer place now:
a place where death isn’t money.