• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 09
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Self proclaimed album

Why Nancy, then, are we walking and hoping for Hyde park to appear before us,
As if it’s on a postcard?
Wish you were here.
And at the same time, I wish you wasn’t and I could moan about feelings I’m not comfortable sharing with you.
Wish you could see me here.
Maybe one time we could philosophise the perfect first encounter.
I sit here on the flooded bench, full of ciggie burns and dirt,
You drop your something and I pick it up and say something like, ‘uh, slippery fingers my love’,
You nod and wander through the path with your rebel piercings and headphones.
Am I the only one who wants to be seen with something splendid, something such as a sun flower in my hair?
Do I just go on here and make mixtapes like a petulant child and scour any opportunity to share them with somebody who wants to share something meaningful to themselves?
You don’t really know me, but I pretend I know you to some capacity.
I wonder, is there something that makes you proofread your entire existence.
Maybe you walked in on your folks doing it one time.
It still sends shivers down your spine.
Wondering why mother was grimacing in a sigh that wasn’t soothing.
Dad just gets the chills and carries on.
Is this really it for us.
Surrounded by uncertainties and reincarnations of other people’s mistakes.
Or is it all just catalogued and labelled ‘Nancy’s best hits’?


Self proclaimed album

That sounds good for a group of records that I think you might like,
Let alone a pass like a mixtape.

That shit is lame.