Failed whistles,
Birmingham Sunday
And humidity breed
Disillusionment in the best of us.
Can you feel the crackling frustration emanating from my chest?
Can you feel the punch,
The swung fist,
Aimed at your head
In my head?
Do you feel how fake this all is?
Or is it
Just fake for me?
I hadn’t thought of that till now.
Maybe it’s just me.
Again.
But it was fun to sing today.
That was the highlight of the day –
Singing “Before He Cheats”
In my real voice –
It’s always good to speak
From my heart
And not from my heart>head>lips
That’s exactly why
It’s good to be high:
To get to talk
And not speak.
The soundtrack of 300,
Message for the Queen,
Fits my heart –
Strangled yodels
Why?
I know why.
Again.
Always again.
“Never again.”
Of course again.
And again.
And again.
What’s the point?
I know there is one. A good one.
I feel it in myself.
Life is preparation?
No.
It’s a depressing joke.
It’s a diorama
Where the grass tells the tree
I’m happy
And the tree blushes
With delight.
Darkness and solitude cloud my judgement;
Should I celebrate
Introversion to Extroversion
Or feel entirely keenly
The depression that depresses me?
Suddenly I hear
A happy word
Vocabulary reminiscent of childhood
And everything is
Uncontrollably,
Excitingly,
Filled-with-life-edly
Amazing
And exciting
And beautiful again.
Good.
I could live for that.
I could live for the breathtaking peaks.
And the love.
And the happiness.
I do live for it.
