Cold tea loosens the garish
morning sky
which, through tired eyes pixellates
purple from too long at a screen.
I scream in the cavern of
my head, a scream that
shakes the backs of my eyeholes
but doesn’t help shut
THEM as dawn marches on.
The foxes have already gone to bed.
The foxes Ted said would come
haven’t, because I haven’t let
them.
Why do I do this to myself?
George is currently studying English at Goldsmiths University and has been writing for a few years now. He occasionally posts work on his blog george-moulos.tumblr.com. George takes a lot of inspiration for his poetry from music – jazz in particular.
Fry Your Friends 