A never-ending bleep of a phone
Crisp packets rustling in the corner of a room
A dry mouth coughing your favourite tune
Laughter hissing like a tortured snake.
A feeling haunts your mind on your coffee break
The squeaking of a chair and creaking floorboard.
A thought was once there, now absorbed
by the printer’s whirring and constant gurgling.
God.
This is driving me mad. what a constant mess, rushing a cold coffee, hot off the press
as we stand and face the hounds of hell
rushing in a sweat before the bell
By Sam Fawcett
Parisian Poetry 