I’ve been wallowing in self-pity and loathing that I haven’t been writing enough, considering my aspirations. I am, through this post, agreeing excitedly to the pop promise that I will blog regularly – write a post everyday. Either that or I jump off my roof. I don’t kid. I never joke. When you laugh at anything in this blog, you will be laughing at me, you cruel (wo)man, keep that in mind.
(Thank you, TheDailyPost :?* I want you to bring me visitors, and I promise to give their greedy eyes some entertainment everyday.)
through my tiny eyes I see
all the cats and bitches
that for some reason
are cross with me.
All I want is to please
the women, the cats,
the bitches, and still be able
to look into the mirror that is
(it reflected humans once
but the fallen shard
is now staring at me)
frightening me, mocking me.
If I hide from the mirror
the cats will eat me;
if I hide from the cats
I will eat myself.
There’s but one sound
daring me, inspiring me
to go on; on those wafts
I will dance forever
I will forget myself
I will sing to myself
I will be a man.
But that mirror in the corner
sees me, even at my piano,
I have not the courage,
to move it, to remove it.
A plan to beguile it was, maybe
maybe not. A plan to amuse it was, maybe
maybe not. But here I tell you the story
as it had happened: as it happens,
the designer made a room, unique and aloof
in a dark jungle of no matter, and
to fool the foolish he called out aloud –
this is where there will be life.
He painted it blue on the outside,
all eight walls and even the doors, impassable.
Through fate, or through courage
through sin, or through discipline
through whichever gate we use to enter,
the room is empty, the room is green.
Fools bang their heads on the walls, fools make merry
but some fools become poets and start to worry
about the emptiness, about the room,
about the green and the persistent gloom.
Some poets remain fools and lament in the green room,
others find a switch, very green – it lies concealed,
and some poets remain fools and turn it on,
while other poets just let it be,
and poets that day they cease to be
in their green room of gloom.
He is a poet who, foolishly, found the switch.
Then foolishly, he turned it on.
Howls abound, the room was red,
a brazen bloody picture of dread.
But between the colours he could see,
the room was the same per se,
the same fools making merry,
the same fools banging their heads on the walls,
the same poets lamenting foolishly
and the same foolish poets searching needlessly.
Green gloom, red dread, or blue bloom,
oh how he wished he could write a poem
and tell others what he’d seen
till it dawned on him a poem like he had in mind
he once had seen…