Forget the Sunscreen

'Forget the sunscreen...
They were right
About not messing too much with your hair',
I tell myself
As I look in the mirror.
Indeed,
That's the one advice
That keeps ringing in my ears.
'The pride and glory of my twenties,
Where art thou?'
I ask my salon trimmed mane;
As it looks right back at me,
Accusing,
For all the years of abuse.

Dear Ms Schwich,
And dear Mr Luhrmann,
Could you, perhaps,
Have awoken me a bit sooner?

Drafts

Myriad thoughts,
Most of them
Stuck right there,
In my throat,
Just short of breaking out,
In words;
Held back,
Like the repressed violence
Of my dreams,
A split second
Before I open my eyes.
That's right-
A part of me is but the sum of
All the drafts,
That still lie half-written
In some corner of my account.