Cold House

It’s a cold house for poets who have no money.

If I had a sense of humour I might think that was funny.

Do we need the internet in the internet age?

Yes we do, we write on a page.

I want feedback, some, some voices bring me joy.

How may I communicate with them through a broken toy?

My internet is down, I have not paid their bill.

I ought to ring them up and say I will.

I postpone things, that is my sin.

When do I begin?

I’ll go to the café and have a coffee and a smoke.

I am a joke.

I have a sense of humour, that is no rumour.

Just when things appeared to be starting to go well I descend into Hell.

Oh well.

I hold back, that’s my crime.

Have I endless time?

Is it best to know the worst, does the worst come first?

I should try before I die.

Things are not as bad as you think, it is better to swim than sink.

I guess I’ll do it after all.

I’ll give them a call.

Can a cold house become warm?

I’ll give it a chance. Sure where’s the harm?

I believe in charm.

Fortune favours the brave.

I have my soul to save.

Could I save yours too?

That’s the thing to do.

Can poetry save my soul?

Make me whole.

To be precise I’m nice.

Don’t think twice.

That’s my advice.

Okay, I’ve done it and its done.

I am my father’s son.

Tich Ennis

21st March, 2017

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