Should I write a poem called getting over things when I haven’t quite got over them yet?
The past rears up to haunt me, you bet.
Why was I not blessed with a better brain?
Then maybe I could stand the strain.
Putting up with things might be better.
That describes things to the letter.
I search for perfection, Paradise.
That rhymes with nice.
It seems I must do it on my own.
What price the telephone?
Okay, I’ll try, you bugger in the sky.
Note, I do not cry.
Omniscient one, I certainly am not you.
I apologise for bugger, that’s true.
16th March, 2017