Not a care in the world

I sit here and write in desperation
The weather is warm, but not pleasant
Humidity sits at around 77 percent, but that’s just a guess
My blood runs thicker than the water that is trapped in the air
This mammal needs a cooler, drier climate

And sadly, it appears I have become so uninspired with my thought that I am describing my surroundings
It is a bleak day indeed
Except it is midnight
This is not poetry; it is swiftly becoming a rant

I have no real problems and that makes it worse

I feel awful for writing this way
Perhaps it is depression
Maybe it is the inner Brit complaining about circumstance

The family cat Buttercup seems to understand the situation
She hops on my lap and rubs my face as if to say it is okay
In her infinite wisdom she jumps on the keypad and slaps my hand away from the keys
I get up and feed her and she agrees to leave me alone

I sip on a cup of rum, red wine and coke
It is horrible
But not too bad
I have no real problems and this makes it worse

I think of the bleak prospect of three years under this National government
They sleep well knowing that all I will do to fight them is write words
I hate myself and the misguided sense that I am achieving something by text
It is no more than apathy that stops me from forcing change in measurable amounts
I have no real problems and this makes it worse

The fridge is too noisy and the clock is cruelly mocking me with each tick
Tick
Come on think
Tock
Go on write something worthy, you’re bloody near thirty
I remove the batteries from the thing and time still doesn’t cease
I light a cigarette knowing full well I’m cutting my life short and screwing myself out of years of potential
I have no real problems and this makes it worse

I think of my brother as I stare into space
What am I doing?
I still don’t know
I am lack lustre
Empty
Uninspired
Capable of something good
But too scared to achieve it
I have no real problems and this makes it worse

I miss friends who aren’t dead
And hate myself for not making the effort to see them
I despise the fact that I consider it an effort at all
What is wrong with me?
I have no real problems and this makes it worse

The hedonist in me considers it a pleasure that I have gotten to know myself
The rationalist sits in the queue behind Mr Hedonism silently shaking his head
He knows full well that I am alien in my own body and have barely scratched the surface
The dreamer in me isn’t even in the line; he is busy writing obscenities of ideas on the grey walls of my brain
I come to the safe conclusion that it is far past the time of reasonable business hours
So I turn them and their thoughts away
The dreamer is still oblivious and continues to scribble away into the night
He knows he has no real problems

But this makes it worse.