In this forum of fabulous writers, what is one little speck of drivel, eh?
Once in a while, shit does hit the fan for me as well. I too get down in the dumps. At such times, I do strange stuff, like attempting to write, and that too poetry! I do write rants on real stuff of life, and which folks take to mostly in hostile ways. But some scribbling, which I have the temerity to call poems, (and folks-who-know-better choose to call juvenile drivel) seem quite sappy and cheesy even to me when I am drunk as a skunk. Here is one of them (long lying unattended on my isolated blog) for your reading discomfort!
Winter is Still Here
Plodding through the snow with near-frozen feet
She struck a weak knock on the door
A faint shadow behind the eyepiece
A whisper, a shuffle on the floor
Rubbing her numb hands for a little warmth
She perked up for a hug, a smile; then
Her little world shattered all about her
She stood, transfixed, watching herself die
She pulled her old coat a little tighter this time
Scared of the breeze in the air
Took a walk down the ghostly-white streets
And wished herself very, very far
She long stopped sketching names on the walls
I guess it doesn't matter anyway
Each face, somehow, looks like the one she misses
It, perhaps, won't ever go away
