I see you drifting; 
Drifting away. 
Far away. 

I'm moving away from you; 
Still standing firm
On my slice of driftwood.

Am I one for groups? 
I'm not follower, nor leader. 
Am I one to 'belong'?

I'm not always comfortable
Revealing the full contents 
Of my overcharged mind. 

I'm content this must be so. 
But at the same time? 
Truly devastated. 
Do I belong elsewhere, now?
A dilettante Diogenes 
In a cabin made of driftwood?



With thanks to Mr Jeff for the general idea....


eW evil ruo sevil kcab ot tnorf;
slegnA dna snomed ekat snrut
gnissiP no ruo spihc. 

sgabtihS lluf fo ysircopyh
erucsbO eht taerg ytuaeb 
tahT semoc htiw gnicaf 
ehT tnasaelpnu shturt nihtiw su.

t'noD tuohs ruoy eutriv os ylduol;
esuaceB I thgim eb detpmet 
oT eveileb eht etisoppo.



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(!) 


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...


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.




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. 

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...


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? 

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.


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? 
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.