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Poetry
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| Undercurrents of Despair | |
| By Sir_Nigel | ||||||||
| 02 April 2008 | ||||||||
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I’m not sure if I should post on here, I’ve nothing much to say, My wife hasn’t left me, no-one has died, it’s a warm and a cloudless day. Others seem so sad and blue, their lives so stark and sober. They speak of sadness, pain, regret and wet days in October. I need to look inside myself and dig up deep emotions. Something glum to wallow in, with philosophic notions. I need to find profundity and air my thoughts on grief And expound my wilder theories on kismet and belief Perhaps I’ll add some pathos to my weighty composition And then to hammer home my point: Repetition, Repetition, Repetition. And as I write of woe and gloom I’ll find the process healing (A better way than drinking gin and staring at the ceiling) So here I go: ‘I’m all alone, not found that certain someone. The world is doomed and warming fast (I really am the glum one)’ I write of love and loneliness and problems in the Arctic And to get those feelings off my chest is really quite cathartic. So damn those sunny attitudes, don’t take it on the chin. If I see a Slough of Despond now, I’ll throw myself right in.
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