Me, me, me

Trying to sleep to kill time,
And one day, time will kill me.
Wasting each day, in my prime,
It’s not all it seems to be free.

I’m outside, looking in on the fun,
Banging on the window, but unheard.
Am I happy to just exist with the sun,
And to remain this way, lonely and scared?

My boredom feels terminal, no one seems real,
My wavelength is outside the spectrum.
My cure is a girl who’s heart I can steal,
As I pluck this sad song with my plectrum.

Trying to sleep to kill time,
As, one day, time will kill me.
Wasting the days, in my prime,
Is this how my life is meant to be?

Written 20 years ago.


The sun rises, invades my room, breaks my sleep.
I crawl slowly and uncomfortably from a pained unconscious,
My mouth, dry and stinking, my nose blocked and sore,
My hair, ragged and bent and my shoulders stiff.
The morning glory in my sweaty pants present yet again!
I struggle to get back to sleep, indeterminate in length, but in vain.
Reluctantly, I haul myself erect and walk backwards in life.
So begins another weary day…

I wrote this poem about 20 years ago.

What is my greatest fear?

Life and living,
Complete desolation of the mind.
Living in limbo, purgatory.
Being brain dead, but being conscious of it.
Being lonely,
Being bored,
Being without ambition or initiative.
Realising everything is meaningless,
Not even absurd!
Being unable to feel joy or love,
Being seriously ill,
Being hated,

Written by me about 20 years ago.

Boy sitting alone in the sun, contemplating the world

Boy sitting alone in the sun contemplating the world,
Wondering what to do next and how to do it.
Wondering where people are going, who they’re meeting,
And most importantly, what they’re thinking!
Wondering why children are murdered…

How does he even begin to try to make sense of things?
Why does everyone else seem to know what’s going on?
Or are they all just blissfully ignorant?
Maybe he should start asking people!
“Excuse me miss, are you happy because you know what it’s all about?
Or are you just stupid?”

Why can’t the boy just get on with the drudgery?
Why does he have to feel that he is special – different?
Surely we all have the same thoughts, how can you not?
Isn’t it all amazing, fascinating, mad, overwhelming, scary…?
100% pure absurdity – I’ve never known anything like it!

A poem written by me about 20 years ago..