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National Poetry Day

As anyone who knows me should proudly attest, I’m a right miserable bastard. In general, I basically hate almost all of the things around me simply because they exist. Which isn’t to say there aren’t exceptions to that rule. There are but I’m still in denial about that. Like those idiots who are convinced that human beings didn’t land on Mars in 1969. My close friends tend to act as mediators between me and the living. Even the things I like I find tiresome or irritating. Case in point being my iPhone. I love having an iPhone and being able to do everything on it like juggle or play fetch with the dog with it but I only really enjoy using it while I’m sitting on the toilet as it distracts me from the terror. If I’m doing something of mild importance such as staring into the middle distance or dancing in front of the mirror and I receive a phone call I become agitated, throw things that break easily and end up having to drink 11 cans of lager. I don’t go on about it though. (Fun fact: human beings landed on Mars in 1969 with less technology in their spaceships than what was in their iPhones.)

Like everyone else on earth, I have a history of depression which is a brilliant topic to bring up during job interviews or over dinner with people you’ve just met. Usually I drop it into conversation when a stranger whom I didn’t know existed until mere minutes ago asks me what I do for a living. For some reason being asked what my job is riles me up more than someone sitting next to me on the bus. Talking about work is the most tedious thing a fully developed homosapien can do so why this has become socially acceptable is completely flummoxing. I was once asked where I worked by someone during the wake at a funeral and I said I was a part time Grim Reaper and they better watch out. To this day I’ve still no idea why they took so much offence by it. If I’d told them where I really worked we would have ended up discussing cliques in job centre waiting areas or extreme poverty. But, you know, I don’t go on about it.

I have a lot of friends and acquaintances who suffer from this disease and while it’s something we can all joke about, it’s not something that should be joked about. As we all know, depression is massively, appallingly, disgustingly, stigmatised and a lot of people simply don’t seek help because of that fact. And, despite my dislike of all things that exist in the universe, this saddens me. In fact it fucks me right off. And not because I was once one of these fearful individuals. I won’t go on about this though.

With that in mind, and with today being National Poetry Day and the theme of the day being light, here’s a villanelle I wrote about this wonderful affliction. There’s an uncharacteristic amount of positivity in it as well so don’t overly concern yourself. I’m still the bringer of all things negative. 

By the bye, this post is exactly 666 words long. So now you know.

Lighter Lands

The time is right for helping hands.
Before the dying of the day,
The mind must strive for lighter lands.

The darkness in the room expands,
And blessed sun in sky is grey;
The time is right for helping hands.

Your idle thoughts are reprimands –
While rolls of mist and fog hold sway,
The mind must strive for lighter lands,

Not furrow deep with grave demands
That pressure you to stop and say:
‘The time is right for helping hands’.

You know no soul who understands
This air of camouflaged decay;
The mind must strive for lighter lands.

Lay siege, it will, its coarse commands
Leave little room to disobey.
The time is right for helping hands,
The mind must strive for lighter lands.