What is it with poets?
That make them
(And by implication me)
Such miserable bastards?
Cliche corner or urban myth
Depressing enough
To jump off a cliff?
Can I help it if I feel
My life is crap?
Should I just accept it
Or get in a flap?
Can't runaway from facts-
I'm forty seven
Getting even closer
To eternity in heaven.
Not that I believe
There's such a place
Once the lid's nailed down
On your wooden case.
I've just got that feeling
My end is nearing
Thankfully without the hassle
Of being god fearing.
With nothing to back
My 'on the way out' fears up
Bar a gut instinct
When it comes to a 'good life'
I've been sold a pup.
No idea how long I've to live
Or how much poetry inside
There is to give.
I know I can do morbid
Not sure about mirth
Putting that down to my shit life
Here on Planet Earth.
Dulwich Poet 28th December 2013
(Just wondering if people who write poetry tend to more miserable than 'ordinary' people, or is it the other 'moody' people just haven't picked their pens up yet? Who knows?)
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