Your name is a lie, and we all know
That you’re not really pink
And probably won’t ever be
Again.
Though that’s to be expected.
20 minutes out of the main town
Driving is now my pass time
Watching as your half burnt ‘grey-ery’
Flies past as the wheels tumble down the road
Filled with flies, they’re Dracula’s miniature army
Sucking your blood like there’s no tomorrow
Or your little bed spiders that stop
You from walking normally
You quiet nights form a moment of peace
The stars shining bright with no air pollution
To drown out their light
Dogs all along the street, wagging their tails
That smack you in the knees
But all in all, Pink Lake, you will always
Be my home.
-
Author:
K. Walsh (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 13th, 2026 01:49
- Category: Nature
- Views: 14
- In collections: Poems of life.
Offline)
Comments2
Britain is surrounded by countryside, and we need it to destress.
But as you say, others live there, and you play by their rules.
Funny story, A Lake Called Pink is actually about the suburb Pink Lake in Western Australia. I always forget there's more than one!
Your beasties will be bigger than ours.
This poem opens with the surreal and ends with home. All in Pink Lake. Well done
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.