My fake despair
is the shame I’m unable to move
myself to work.
Is the lack of sleep I’m getting in
four walls perched on a hill
that would mock rains.
And for a time.
While I shake dry, combed hair.
shamefully so do I.
My fake despair
doesn’t bother you.
And it shouldn’t.
I am disconnected.
I am an observer.
Useless worrier.
Anxious about my purse
Rather than the balance of survival.
My despair does not deserve the name.
It is born bone idle and fretting.
And my wasted will upsetting
those who have no chances.
My fake despair
should not exist.
But it does.
And I’m sorry.
But I’m aware of it
and that’s something.
My fake despair,
My enemy.
Concerned by the absence of trivial things.
I hope to write you off.
That Man – A Poem
They asked me not to break things, first.
After I deconstructed their careful blockade.
They asked me not to eat them.
And I wouldn’t.
They asked me to have mercy.
Not that they needed to.
Whispers of ‘that man’.
Rang in negative ears.
Him, the naysayer.
Him, the irrepressible.
They pointed at me.
They asked me not to change them.
But I had at least to even the odds.
Break the bonds and
untie Potential.
Invite Belief
back to the fold.
Have a word with Power
just make sure he was on both sides.
When I, Inspiration, struck.
Boredom cowered.
Distraction frowned.
And the playthings of
Idle were sent to their corner.
‘There’s a time and a place’
I said. And, ‘you’ve had your fair share’.
And they asked Inspiration to be gentle.
And he just winked a smile.