dissapointment

I first felt the twang aged twelve:

Christmas Day.

It felt like something had died.

I saw through a tiny crack

The hollowness of it all, on the holly’s day.

After that, it came right back in spades and buckets.

It’s a little like polystyrene.

It makes the same petty whimper

When scrapped.

Its dull and breaks easily,

Into countless harsher fragments.

Some what like old French bread,

Barely over a day away from the oven

With its warm promise;

Its like a bullet in the gullet,

You choke, for entertainment really.

It builds up like cholesterol in my veins.

What will kill me first?

How many manly hearts have

Clunked out,

On disappointment?