A poem by Mark McConville

Forever Owing Debt


I am stepping out of this chaotic room

Struggling to breathe in fresh air

My smoked out lungs like raging bulls

Probably red and pulsating like hearts.


The town looks unfamiliar

They’ve changed the billboards

And the café I used to drink coffee in

Shuttered over, and derelict,

I am saddened by it all

The thin line between greatness and


This town has been brutally masked by food chains

And hopelessness.


I observe all these destructive would be warriors

Wielding bottles and their tortured minds

High on adrenaline and sick to their stomachs

Of falling by the wayside.


I manage to walk steadily

Recurring dreams bubbling inside in my head

The pavements are rough, pot holes everywhere,

But I survive and make it to the other-side.


Ravens are vocal, their sounds and distinctive noises,

Compliment this darkness that floods through this town

Seekers go in doors, enemies shout and scream,

Alcohol attacks vital organs, heads are wasted,

And I am the sober dreamer, forever owing debt,

To a lover who sold herself to a world matted in spider webs,

And deluded men.


The doors are shutting, the atmosphere feels curdled,

The gutters are filling up, the harm is coming,

Fear is prying open minds and my watch has hit midnight,

The ghosts may as well show themselves.


About The Poet

Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has written for many online and print publications. These publications include The Skinny, New Noise Magazine, Punktastic, Clash, God Is In The TV, and Substream Magazine. His poetry has also been published through Idle Ink. His work is cathartic and honest.




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