Monday hits you with the force of a runaway train,
Tuesday you get up only to be crushed back down again,
Wednesday starts quietly then sneakily stabs you in the back,
Thursday feels like a full-blown heart attack,
Friday you crawl towards the light at the tunnels end,
Saturday you let your broken brain try to mend,
Sunday you brace yourself for it to start all over again.
Sometimes the world thinks you’re made of steel, when really it’s just clay
and you chip and crack a little more and more each day.
You’ve kept a lot of secrets but never kept a single promise,
as it’s easy to lie to everyone when to yourself you’re never honest.
After a lot of hard work my new poetry collection “A Pigeon Among the Cats,” is now finished and out in the world, flying free. Published by Pretty Tattered Soul Press run by the fantastic Paul B Morris the book can be found on Amazon right now.
The UK version can be found here, paperback or Kindle
The US version can be found here, paperback or Kindle
Here’s the title poem from the book….
Some days I feel like a neurotic pigeon,
pecking out a meagre existence,
surviving on my dumb luck alone
in a world full of cats.
I constantly walk on eggshells,
while all around me the
sleek fat chic pad confidently by,
their lips curled in sneers or snarls.
I’m an endangered species
with no defence except
my novelty value.
Which is no real protection for a neurotic pigeon
whose dumb luck could run out at any time,
constantly scrabbling to exist
in a world full of cats.
A pigeon who realises that his problem is
he’s that bloody stupid he’s forgotten he’s got wings.
You dragged yourself through last week and now it’s starting all over again,
It’s another Monday and you wake to your alarm’s incessant cry of pain.
You vaguely recall another weekend that flew by much too fast,
So you force yourself out of bed when your brain is begging you to crash.
Stumbling around your flat in the gloom and cold,
Your body complaining of aches and pains, you feel prematurely old.
Slumped in your untidy kitchen you eat your toast alone,
As you summon up the will to get up and leave your home.
Setting off to the bus dragging your feet,
Kicking at the dead leaves clogging the street.
The wind is like an icy fist punching you in the face,
You feel like a conscientious objector to the human race.
Hoping if you make it to the end of the week they’ll be a solution
Then maybe, just maybe to your problems they’ll be some resolution.
But buried deep within you is the thought that this isn’t true,
This will yet again be just another week of surviving as you.
And the only real goal for which you feel you should strive,
Is trying to make it to the end of another week alive.