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 flatline phoenix

Poetry

That dull, constant tone as life gives out.
You’re on a bleak streak, you need to fight this, how?
All you can do is take things one day at a time.
Don’t be a tourist be a Buddhist.
Embrace life and live it to its fullest.
This you say with balled fists.
Cos it’s rough, you’re dealing in tough love.
You can never be fulfilled by something that is never enough.
Like that scene in Trainspotting, babies crawl the ceiling as you sweat it out rotten.
Body convulsing as you fight.
Feeling like you’re wrapped in cotton.
And from the depths of your conscious demons call to you.
In that silky, filthy way that sirens do.
And like a mug, you follow blind.
Like Alice down the rabbit hole, you’ve gone in cold but all you’re doing is further twisting your mind.
Looking for that sweet, calming rush.
Something disarming that destroys you quietly with minimal fuss.

And no one understands that you’re a walking corpse.
Most people would baulk at your morbid thoughts.
Dark and twisted, you’re a sick fantasy.
Your better self sneers cos you’re proper odd to see.
Then you have a zen moment and veer towards perfect clarity.
You’re now the eye of the storm.
But your brain forever plays cruel games.
It’s high time you were reborn.
And lately, searing flames really burn through your veins like liquid nitrogen.
If you could just get through this then tomorrow you’d be right again.

Whatever though.
It’s your thing to beat… or face defeat and feel forever low.
You wish your seratonin could fill out stadiums but right now you can’t sell a show.
This realisation hits you hard.
Hammering down with every blow.
But moods are fleeting.
There’s no sense feeling defeated as they come and go.
You gotta roll with the punches and let your mind ebb and flow.
Surf troughs of paranoia and waves of euphoria as you try to grow.
Hell, it’s a snowstorm.
Embrace the blizzard and just let it snow.
You’ll either freeze to death or blaze bright like the phoenix.
But if you don’t try you’ll never know.