Lost

I’m a bit nervous about sharing this because I’m not an artist, unlike most of the people who blog here. In my case this is just a bit of fun and taking part, even if my poem is miserable.
I find it easier, and more fun, to write a poem than a block of text, so just a short foreword, and a poem especially written for this week’s theme: Lost.



Lost Is
The draft of a bad love poem I left lying around
don’t know where I’d been thinking about throwing it out for months but it was so bad I didn’t want to look at it   Not that I write love poems.   Lost is   the debit card you’re looking for inaudibly saying to you warmer, colder, I'm here 
Then, later, overhearing the phone call to Halifax 
about how it needs to be cancelled.
Lost is knowing what’s coming.
your mum  googling her childhood friends
after having the idea for the first time,
then finding nothing
radio 4 talking about 70 being the new 60 but my dad lives in Bloomfield where the life expectancy for men is 68
(Get lost)
empathy and perspective when you don’t give someone the
room to make a mistake
being a child, crying for your parent at a festival and standing with a security officer
being alone in the sand dunes when you’re 3 finally finding your uncle
who didn't realise you weren't there
I know it's a cliché but: 
The years scrolling 
The secret love of your life
The person who left you
The person who never thought they’d lose like this
the millions of money that Visit Blackpool say is generated from tourism, until the money is found in Bloomfield. 
the questions you didn't ask like 'would you like me to show you the history of Blackpool forum?’
I sometimes think that my problems are privileged problems to have The new bike helmet I lost 
My broken iPhone battery
The things that damage my health
I can do things that other people can’t do for fear of being stoned to death.
I haven’t lost a child
I haven’t been born in some kind of hell
I live in one of the richest countries in the world
Loss is relative
Someone said to me recently that I should lower my expectations to improve my success 
Lost is having too high expectations and not being grateful to live to 68, which in part is true. 
Who is googling your name? 
Lost is what is not found
Lost forever is the reunion with your cancelled debit card. 
Thank you for reading my poem,
AJ Binks, October 2017 Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook

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