Reece Beckett is a young poet, filmmaker, film critic and music producer. Soon to be going to University, he focuses on using his free time to contribute to Taste of Cinema and Cinematary, writing poetry, listening to music and reading plenty. He hopes to work in many creative fields, but feels quite at home with poetry as an outlet for now.
Day to Day
Depression self induced, self prophesied,
I lost my mind, I’m bleeding out and still
stuck in Stockholm syndrome
Never grown, remained the same since my father left
There’s a man I wish I’d known, three year old kid scared to death and never going home
Always biding time alone
Living in a hierarchy, so far from the throne
Letting out a groan when I leave my comfort zone
Anxiety imprisoning, my pillow tightly sewn
I condone staying asleep ‘cause I’m afraid to be awake
My bones ache,
Scrape like tectonic plates in an earthquake
Shattered, my brain matter splattered on a wall
Staying in all the time, like a drug on withdrawal
Know I lost it all, my drawl turning to a desperate crawl
Never enthralled, I no longer care for much
Stuck inside, talking but never saying a bunch,
Haven’t eaten for a week, skipped on every lunch
Relying on depression, the only remaining crutch
Claims that our opportunities are equal and the same
As if the poor don’t have to sweat ten times more for the same
And usually in the rain, forced to refrain from complaining
Or the cost is a job lost.
You’re not maintaining life,
stuck in a frame or the first level of the same game
I remember my dad blaming me for our car stolen,
Overnight, turned out the light
so the thief knew no one was patrolling
thousands down the drain
means thousands more to try to gain
I had to thieve just to eat,
tell me how opportunity’s the same,
Disillusioned with life, remember being told that hard works pays off in the long run
So why is it that my father worked for all of everyday
And poverty was still the outcome?
And why is it that the stress depressed him so much
that he compressed his love to hate
and turned to drinking pain away
every time he had to start another day?
“Opportunity’s the same”; a lie
told by the rich to try to gain
the labour of those he saw below
Through sun, fog, rain and snow
In hope their sons and daughters may
Live without fear, maybe without beer
And avoiding the same stuff that stole their souls.
It’s all a smokescreen,
look close and see your reflection in it
No wonder I’m morose,
Look at the yarn they’re busy spinning
Living a lie; I guess at least I’m passing time
Feel like I’m losing my mind,
The good in me is trying to thrive
But I think it died and left a corpse behind
on a nine to five.
find me a working class family with pride
Who are glad to be alive whilst working in a mine
And I’ll prove it’s just a lie, a fallacy or a disguise.
We’ve been misguided by a guise.
I can feel it passing by, rushing away with the waves
Paralysed just watching, let out a prayer for better days
I can feel the world enclosed, my mind is meek and so morose
The beauty passing all the time, an open door that quickly closed.