I wasn’t going to post this having just finished it. I was going to sit on it until the moment felt right, sometime when, sometime never. But typing now it weighs like a duty I’m bound to, to swallow pride and nervous energy, and publish this anyway.
To borrow a now classic catch phrase from a recent gig, “Fuck it!”
For anyone who’s ever seen
The ignorant and the aloof,
The callous and the cold,
The awkward and just plain wrong,
This is, in part, explanation only,
For being myself there is no apology,
It takes more than one to make someone anyway.
93. The mist. (22 June 15).
Confidence, always, has been like a mist,
Sometimes I can breathe it in,
But most of the time it hangs,
Right in front of the nose on my face,
It floats there clearly within my grasp,
While taunting me just out of reach,
Not as simple as here today,
Not as tidy as gone tomorrow,
It works better with egg timers,
Than it does calendars,
This fickle friend who tortures,
That pains more than it ever pleases.
© Jim Laing 2015.