Well, I actually have something a bit more interesting to say. A few things in fact. The thing is, I’ve just thought of an idea for a blog post that has made my mind race, only the problem I’m having is my mind is feeling far too old for that kind of pace today and would rather have a nice sit down and a biscuit. Adjusting to working six days a week is taking it out of me, and so – despite the fact that I haven’t blogged in seven days – even the thought of lifting my fingers to type is making me feel a bit hard done by tonight. Somehow, I don’t think now is the best time to mould the aforementioned blog idea into some words on paper. I’m holding my breath on this one for a few days, until my brain feels a bit less like the stuff you find down the back of sofas.
I have resolved to give you at least something, though, to prove I am in fact still here and have not yet got a life or anything drastic like that.
A couple of weeks ago I wrote a poem. I quite like it – I’ve tried to make most of it iambic, and experimented with more subtle rhymes – but it isn’t feeling complete yet. I’ve sat staring at it for hours (always a productive use of my time, I’ve found) and I can’t figure out which bits need to be chopped and tweaked, or where I need to plump it up a bit. So I thought I’d put it here, on the naughty step, until I’ve worked out what to do with it.
At the very least I like the concept. I think we all have some bad happy in our lives.
As long as you keep asking me to hold you just in check
I’ll try and fail,
And fall into dangerous places,
And still think I’m above the world
and looking down at all the clowns
who don’t know what real love is
even when it’s on their tongue.
And all the while I’m under
when I should be over.
And all the while I’m turning back
when I should soar away.
I bathe in old light
and read the fractured writing on the wall.
Try and seal it under paper
but it seeps through every night,
and follows me to pierce the dark
in which I lie,
and under which I fall.
This is bad happy.
I know it as I feel it,
but drowning is a peaceful way to go,
And poisoned berries still taste sweet
Despite the told-you-so.
(Feel free to do my job for me and tell me what the good and not-so-snazzy bits are. I may, of course, tell you you’re full of shit and should stop interfering. But then, I am very tired and irritable.)