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. 

Brian’s winter woes

Poetry

Hello, I’m Brian and this is my dark story.
Not a confession or admission of guilt and this isn’t for the stark glory.
I just want you to understand.
Here I stand, just a man alone living like a King on my barren throne.

So here goes…

This time of year self-destruction is where it’s at.
Winter’s tough and that’s a fact.
From grey skies to jaded lives I eked out my existence, suffering a bad vibe trying hard not to implode before my demise.
And as each day passed I got closer to spying the sun.
Vitamin D. My body screamed for its basic need.
If that’s all I required then this battle would be won way before it begun.
But it goes deeper than that.
Winter means Christmas, which creeps up fast like an inexorable trap.
Every year I felt crushed under the weight of forced jollity.
A fake reveller, about as lost as you could get, divorced from reality.
Merry people hounding me, with no one strong to ground me, making me feel like a endangered manatee.
Cursed to question my sanity in this yuletide season of sickening vanity.
Forced to wade through an ocean of festive frolics.
At this point I felt jaded and tested, like a recovering alcoholic.
With a bitter taste choking my throat, like a broken baby with chronic colic.

Then one year I reached my limit.
If this is it, then the demons of hell had better bring it, cos I’m nothing but numb.
I needed to feel, pain perhaps.
Like I’m a bullet and should be shot from a gun just for fun.
Or I should get lost in the wilderness and just run and run.
Face off wolves in the snow like Liam Neeson.
Broken bottles framing my fists, it’s just me and these beasts now, son.
There’s a purity to that.
Yeah it’s certain death, but in fury there’s a peace if you find the knack.
Either that or embrace the rage and get totally jacked, like a meth head gorging on smack, whilst he’s on a break from baking crack and doing lines of gack and shots of Jack.
See it’s all or nothing, ups and downs.
With self-destructive people there’s really no middle ground.
In your head the demons dance round and round coaxing you on.
They say the lesser of two evils is best, but what if the greater is the only way to feel you’ve won?

Winter is coming

Poetry

The air is thin as the nights draw in.
It’s coming… winter.
As sure as it’s written in scripture.
You can fight colds with a herbal tincture, it’s a breeze.
Or if you feel the need, why not OD on vitamin C?

You see, at some point September turns.
We remember the late summer sun,
but all of a sudden the cold air burns.
And then we just want to hibernate.
We want hot food, like pies that are baked.
All covered in gravy, the embodiment of winter’s heroin.
Served up by a buxom landlady, the body of winter’s heroine.
We pray to the gods then tuck in and begin.
Chowing down on a feast fit for kings.
Feeling the warmth revive us.
The fuel to face night terrors now burns inside of us.

It’s a funny one though.
Late in the year one week it’s sun the next it’s snow.
Something that seems to catch us off guard.
‘Oh no, what do we do?’, we cry.
Is it really that hard?
Trains fail and cars crash.
It’s like the whole nation has eczema, winter’s rash.
We scratch and we itch and we moan and bitch.
But to be honest, that’s just us being British.
Like troopers we soldier on.
As it gets colder we become bolder.
To the point where winter is long gone.

Now other nations probably laugh at us.
There we are, wrapped in fifty scarves, all trussed.
And it’s not even cold enough to freeze a mouse.
Not that we’d know as we don’t leave the house.
Or when we do it’s nearly always to drink.
For some reason we go mad for mulled wine.
Not had it? It’s fine, let me educate.
Spice a cheap red, heat to boiling,
and what you’re left with is a sorry state.
Yet Brits, we guzzle it down.
Then nuzzle the nearest stranger,
until one of us hits the ground.
Maybe it’s a ritual we’re performing to winter’s gods?
Something habitual we invented so we don’t feel robbed.
Mugged off by nature and the biting cold.
We gather in pubs reciting stories centuries old.
At least, that’s what we’re told.

And don’t get me started on mince pies.
By the first of October they’re on the shelves.
It’s enough to make me cry.
But they are tasty.
So if you want me to scream, try Christmas tunes.
Slade and Bing Crosby, the aged pop platoon.
And I’m stuck, marooned on this festive isle, trapped by Jack Frost.
It’s so depressing, I just feel vile and lost.

Not that I’m a scrooge.
But I do want something new.
Not the same old crap recycled each year.
We need to breach this loop,
we need to feel the fear.
Nature needs to fight back,
she must talk the talk.
As a rousing song I’ll go with The Pogues’ Fairytale of New York.
But this year I fear I’m destined to bitch again.
Stuck with Cliff Richard desperately trying to be my friend.