Just stopping by here in the middle of trying to cope with a too-full In-Tray, and realising that I need to come here and spend more time reading all my fellow bloggers' fine posts... I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that Tuesday is the cruellest day of the week(!) 'OVERLOADED' Wires? Crossed. Fuses? Blown. Circuits? Shorted. Thoughts? Contorted. Psyche? Bent. Mind? Melted. Give me time, from time to time; Give me space to breathe: Wonderful, much-needed oxygen For lungs, skin, mind and soul.
Today is not a good day. By any stretch of the imagination. I can only hope for [A] improvement, or [B] a miracle. Just a nice, little miracle. I'm not fussy. In the meantime, it's time for more coffee. Insomnia is no fun -- and it doesn't take a college professor to tell anyone that. If affects everything. This was composed in the early, sleepless hours... 'OBVIOUSLY CRIPPLING DISCOMFORTS' Choice phrases such as: "Did you lock all of the doors?" Pulse thru my soft mind. Quickly, savagely O.C.D. regains my brain; Lost territory. Been away too long? A lifetime's not long enough. Please just let me rest. How do you cry "help" When your overheated mind Is the enemy? I'm like a frail bloke Facing an enemy tank; Helpless, hopeless, scared. So now I hope for? Rest, reassurance, and sleep. Holy trinity.
'DISGUISES' We keep it simple: Call them "hero" and "villain". Then we feel better. But please ask yourself: Does "simple" mean "accurate"? Are they synonyms? The real bigot? Not who you might think it is: Take a good, long look. Sophistication? A pleasant, shiny veneer: A child lurks beneath. Don't be too trusting: The Devil is NOT the bloke With red horns and tail. No; he will assume The guise of a kind angel; Smooth tongue, pretty words. A too-true cliché: Actions speak louder than words. Hell knows, it's damn true.
Pretty grim subject matter, really... 'RED MISTY-EYED' Gentle post-meridiem, All smooth and sunlit. Yet turbulent beneath: Thunderbolts aplenty; Cyclones and sourness. "They attempted to end it all." How does it sound? Dramatic? Operatic? Histrionic? In my head, the voice of The obsequious butler: "Has Sir considered apathy instead?" Sir has, indeed: Just before he rejected it. Does it matter how well I know them? Brother, sister, or stranger: The fact that they tried Is bad enough. Once is too many times. I look to myself, Having little else useful to do: Not a heart bleeding, But blood-red with rage At the shitty way of things. Bring out Brünnhilde To give us a big tune: Let the trumpets touch the sky; Self-righteous or not, Voices need to be heard. Is it haughty indignation? Or something entirely valid? Many questions. Few answers. If any. So should I punch the pillow? Or lay my head on it? I'd like some good sleep. It used to be a hobby, Now it's the Holy fucking Grail.
OK, it's going to be a one hundred word free verse poem for blogpost #1OO. Just something simple. I'm enjoying refining my own personal sense of verbose brevity, after all [!] Anyway, a warm thank you to everyone who's stopped by this blog so far, and read, liked or commented on my posts since I began blogging. Every word has been much appreciated. No matter where we are in our journey, I think most anxious depressives are very appreciative of warmth, kindness and support... it's not just useful, it's essential. Thank you for being my chum. 'HAPPY CENTENNIAL BLUES' What am I? Silly soliloquist? Depressive dilletante? Happy haikuist? Anxious serenitist? Male feminist? Romantic cynic? Wonderfully wise? Introspective idiot? Suave chump? Boozy oaf? Deliciously foolish? "Admiral Buffy"? "Captain Posh"? All of the above? It's all good. So, will I ever grow up? I doubt it. My personal credo? Non-responsibility. Child-like... but not child-ish. I hope. Not because I'm indifferent; Rather, because I care too much About the world's pain and its problems. It is what it is. Anyway, my First Mate and reader; Set a course for the way home: Second star to the right -- And straight on 'til morning.
'THE PUDDLE & THE FUN WULF' The Fun Wulf loves life; In cravat and crushed velvet He sips his pink gin. He'll chat all day long; His theme tune's hot jazz music. Life? A carnival. Then there's the Puddle: Pool of dark despondency, He simply lies there. Sometimes he attempts To run up life's big, steep hill. He fails, sighs, and sulks. It hurts and frustrates To see both in my mirror: Fun Wulf yet Puddle.
'SELF-PUNISHMENT' Mister Narcissist, And, of course, Ms Narcissist: Kindly leave us be. I say, 'leave us be', Because I speak for friends, too And we've had enough. You have your own pool Brimful of your self-loathing: Swim in it. Alone. While we are damaged You will always feel alone And beyond repair. Bitter truths, of course, But you tried to drag us down Into your foul pit. Well, we're not coming; So let your crime of ego Be your torture, too.