by Alexander Lound (as appeared on http://alexlound.wordpress.com/2014/02/06/lies/ February 6, 2014)
The clock strikes twelve and my heart is empty,
Six whiskies later my mind is mending,
The world revolves, reforming mentally,
A seventh now, it serenades me.
The barmaid smiles but I feel her resentment,
The pretty girl lied so I just need to vent it,
Me, myself and I in rehabilitation,
Why, oh why, does she still plague my mind.
The walls fall down and I’m floating through space,
A horse in a stable with beautiful mane,
I take it, my steed, to race to my love,
To take her now in eternal embrace.
Snap out of it, she says,
And puts the eighth in front of me.
I’ve been drinking doubles by the way,
I thought I’d mention it.
Another sip and I’m gone, I’m surrounded by songs,
My own loved ones, singing at the bar,
Now here comes the car, I can hear her cries
Of laughter, in white.
But I know her lies, I can hear her cries,
Tears on her face, but I left anyway.
I’ve got time for a ninth, I drink ‘til
The Sun shines, to illuminate the room,
The carpet is sand, she holds my hand,
My shirt to the chest; her long, blue dress.
A tenth and I’m gone,
To a house that’s not home.
She looks like an angel,
But inside she’s a demon.
I fall on my face and I feel her there,
She’s laughing at me now,
Her tears turned to joy,
Her frown split in smile,
She wants to see me bleed,
My ankles in chains,
My mind in a loop,
She’ll never set me free.
* * *
At only 20 years old, Alexander Lound is relatively new on the writing scene. Studying History at the University of Kent, he finds what time he can in between heaps of reading to escape into another world, to put pen to paper and allow his mind to run riot.
Lound knew that writing would become his passion from a young age, when at 9 years old, ignoring his teacher’s instructions to write a story surrounding the plot of an already published book, he wrote his own from scratch – much to the teachers displeasure. After losing interest in writing during his rebellious teenage years, he now has his head stuck firmly in composition again, spending days at at time on new works of poetry and fiction.