The S.A.D.s (winter has come)

Poetry

So you’ve heard of S.A.D.s right?
That seasonal winter disorder.
You know… the one where your social skills take flight like a ship in the night and you can’t get aboard her.
And any activity outside the house is only going to exhaust ya.
Cos you just wanna hibernate.
Well I get it bad each year.
And its tendrils settle on me like blanket fear.
But I gotta fight this trait.
Assuming that it’s a flaw in my character.
Cos maybe I’m looking at life through the wrong lens?
And I need a new kind of aperture.
But I lack skill and feel ill; chasing these good vibes.
This ain’t what the doctor prescribed.
I’m such an emotional amateur.
Trying to squeeze positivity out of every beat.
So effectively, I stave off defeat like a social scavenger.
And yeah, maybe I need a CT scan presented in a nice little 3D plan.
If that’s the case, then someone better call an examiner.
Get me signed off work for a month or two.
And yeah I can put on a positive front, it’s true.
But I need to up my game to fool my manager.
And people keep telling me to chill.
Go run a bath for my ills.
To help soothe my troubles while I drown in lavender.
But all I can do is count down the dark days on my threadbare calendar.
Looking ahead to when my mood lifts.
And I stop taking these rude hits.
And then maybe life will feel less like I’m a coasting passenger.
Toasting my demise with haunted eyes as I witness my own exquisite massacre. 

The moody virus

Poetry

I hit real hard but I’m locked out of this guy and literally barred.
Guess I’ve pulled the mystery card.
Damn human, he barely swoons.
Somehow he’s resisting and scarily immune.
This I ask why as I’m forced to diversify.
But get nowhere facing wall after wall.
Might as well learn to fly. 
But then I become stuck for words, tongue-tied as my circuits fry.
I attack back but it’s a stalemate.
Me versus guy.
And right now, as he sings to me his verses lie.
I curse and sigh, he’s less sad sack more stone-cold samurai.
Time to step back from my game plan, be bold and analyse.
Find a chink in his armour or this whole day will be a disaster.
This cheeky, healthy freak, why won’t he just die a bit faster?
He’s basically a perfect specimen, clearly one of God’s special men.
This I want to shout from the rafters.
But it’s a lame song.
This guy will never die.
He’s got more charisma than James Bond.
From the swagger of Connery to Craig’s blonde, he’s way gone.
At least, up to the point that you think he’s died.
And so for my sins I must coax him in.
Like it’s a wedding day and he’s a nervous bride.
I mean, what way can I infect his worthless hide?
As a virus I’m not invincible.
And right now I’m feeling miserable and must swallow my pride.
Damn this man, he’s a thorn in my side.
I want to straight up brand him with my disease till he chokes on his lies.
Where’s his weakness?
I’ll find a way in, he’d best believe this.
Big deal he can fight off lesser known diseases.
There’s more to me I’m a different breed.
Focused and upbeat and no complete defeatist.
A religious jihadist with this game, no cheated extremist.
For him and me? We’ve got bad blood.
And I plan to attack in a mad rush, latching onto his Hemoglobin.
This man’s not special and needs to know that he’s not chosen.
So I advance on his defences and gently goad him.
His reflexes falter becoming frozen.
Weak cells face all kinds of hell, his body smoking.
Like vampire scum in the sun, close to exploding.
What’s the best way to throw him?
Days numbered on Death’s clock you see. 
Is this some kind of democracy where his fate rests on voting?
This I ponder with a sense of foreboding.
But right now I’m calling his tab.
Last round and all that and time on this guy is now close to closing. 

Spring chicken

Poetry

Reach down, tie that trainer, no time to sleep now this exercise lark is a no-brainer.
Ear buds in, one, two, when it’s workout time there’s no room for curfew.
Feeling the burn like Schwarzenegger, but with no one egging me on it’s just me and my thoughts. Like an unstoppable object against an immovable force, one foot follows the other in a vendetta against sports.
Starting slow, step by step, blow by blow, I pick up the pace. But this ain’t no race against anyone except myself. And my health faces a neverending battle against office work and fatty foods. But I’m on a quest, and so I must choose. If this is a rat race am I destined to lose?
Thinking about it, sugar and bread are the blight of our lives, lurking on the shelves they fill me with dread, to fight back I must smite them or die. On my quest I’m constantly asking myself why, do I go healthy or do I fold and choose pie?
But I digress.
Why should I be forced to eat less and less?
And it’s not just me, we’re an obese nation according to the media. Have you ever asked yourself, what lies are they feeding ya?
Eight glasses of water a day, till we’re so full of liquid that we sway and sway from side to side, like the Titanic with an iceberg in her sights. Or maybe we’re an apex predator, keeping a flex on as we get cleverer and cleverer.
Destroying, consuming and hoovering up resources, we’re on a calorific mission to reach critical mass, destined to become a bloated fortress.
Yet there’s hope, there always is. In our quest to become lean and lithe and reach fitness bliss we must get a regular sweat on and bear witness to this.
Spinning, boot camp, lifting weights, on this fit-fat loop are we doomed to make the same mistakes? God I hope not or this is all for nothing.
As those gym bunnies say, no pain no gain.
Time to put the pen down. Time to train.