Outlook. A poem.

No one else to blame but me
For this sad and sorry state
Nothing left to say at all
Don’t be angry or irate
Disregard the news you hear
And turn the other cheek
There’s no one else to blame
Outlook: overcast and bleak

D&D. A haiku tetralogy.

Dice

Polyhedral dice
In your hand, controlling fate
Hack! Slash! “Die, monster!”

Delve

Deep dungeon delving
Party of five outsiders
Death or glory here

Dauntless

“My hit points are low”
Rest or spells to recover
“Ready? Time to smash!”

Dire

“Awful acting, yeah?”
Comedic celebration
Shared gaming love


These haiku are about my love of tabletop role playing games (RPGs), particularly Dungeons and Dragons (D&D). I loooooove RPGs.

Don’t know what D&D and RPGs are? Read about them here and here.

Books. A poem.

Pages on my shelf
Motes of dust floating
Crazily translucent
In dawn’s early light
Each story on my shelf
Each moment in time
Reflected in its space
The words on my shelf
Thoughts, history, dreams
Treasures immemorial
Make a poor man wealthy

Consumed. A poem.

Darkness dwells, swells
Rises up and takes the stage
In angry soliloquy
Spewing forth rage
And with every fiery assault
Slice another piece of heart
Throw it down onto the plate
And cover it with dripping
A feast for kings and queens of pain
To tear and chew until only crumbs remain

Son. A poem.

Sometimes he’s far away, head in the clouds again
In a world that’s hard to define, harder to confirm
Even with all his quirks, arguments, trials, laughter and pain
Together we are unflappable, incorrigible, unbreakable, invincible
He is my son, my amazing and unbelievable one
My sunrise, my sunset, my reason for being
My love is without measure and without end
And every moment shared is like being born again

Everything is awesome. Not.

I often get depressed at the worst times. Like today, when I have to do work for uni and my motivation is at an all-time low. The solution? Write aimlessly about depression for my blog. Yes, I’m sure that will solve everything (I may claim to be a writer, but I never claimed to be an intelligent or coherent writer. Or a man with a plan).

Sometimes I play guitar to get me back to a reasonable mental state. But, as we all know (and as I should know, by now), music played by sad people often tends to be…sad. It’s not often that melancholy musos rip into a version of ‘Everything is Awesome’ from the Lego movie (actually, it’s never – no real musos would ever play that song).

Sometimes I lie around waiting for my depression to subside. This is one of the worst solutions, as I tend to fixate on everything bad in my life (which is almost everything I do) and then try to rationalise it with all the people worse off in the world than me (which is a lot more), which makes me sadder as I’m obviously a complete waste of time who has just wasted my own time. Almost a living double negative. And don’t get me started on the bit where I start fantasising about the perfect life (or, more appropriately, perfect lie).

Often, I try to read, but people with depression are attracted to literature in much the same way they are attracted to gloomy music. This makes unhappy endings even more unhappy (“But Rhett, we should be together. I love you!” “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn. I think I’ll return home and gamble and drink myself into a deep and inescapable hole. And maybe guest star as a Force ghost in the next Star Wars movie.” Note to Disney: do not have an ‘Anakin’ Force ghost cameo. I’m warning you now. You don’t want to see a depressed fan when he’s angry. Nothing to lose, y’know. I warned you I’m not always coherent).

I’m a fairly creative person—I compose stories, poems and music, draw, write this stupid blog—and one would assume that I would be able to find some way (other than high doses of legal and potentially illegal medication) to get me out of the dumps. What I’ve found is that depression is ideal for creativity. I’ve written some of my best work when I feel like crap. Of course, it tends to be a bit depressing, but there you go. Horses for courses, and all that jazz.

I know there are lots of people in the world who suffer from anxiety and depression—a quick search on WordPress reveals hundreds of blogs by sad and lonely bloggers with more than enough to say on the topic. So, my own vaguely pathetic attempts are almost laughable (or miserable, depending on how they turn out).

So, I’m looking for some sure fire quick fixes (yes, I know there aren’t any, but tell me anyway. I’m a true believer in panaceas and placebos, except when they’re administered rectally). Meditation? Tried it. Martial Arts? Do it already. Working out? Yep, a great fix that lasts the period of the workout and about an hour afterwards…Alcohol? I’m sure there’s a potential down side to it, but it’s looking good, so far…

Surprisingly, this pithy bit of writing has cheered me up slightly (on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being dead and 10 being obnoxiously and overwhelmingly extroverted, I guess I’m a 4). Not because it’s good, but rather just a way to vent. Maybe I should try some more. Perhaps those uni responses…

Old Dogs. A poem.

Our old hangouts have changed
Nothing here has stood still
But we’re both still keeping time
To an age-old beat of bitterness and pain
Same old tricks for the same old dogs
So the malls may change and the atmosphere
But together or apart we are never present tense
Just more tension and pretension
Always at our expense

Whovian Girl. A poem.

It’s hard not to remember her face
Often smiling, sometimes scowling
A book clutched to her breast
And a smartphone in her hand
Nerd excitement at the latest Dr Who
Which we’d discuss at length
Dissertations on everything from daleks to Dr next
And though she had her secrets, as did I
We were always as candid as could be
On any conversation, any topic
No condescension or formality
Always earnest to the nth degree
And when we laughed it was meaningful and hearty
I miss her, as I always have
As I always will and always won’t
Never far from mind but always far from sight
I miss my Whovian as I miss the light
Now that my world has passed
Into this long and endless night

Boxes. A poem.

Life reduced to boxes
Cartons of memory
Refuse of lifetimes
Stacked and sorted
Taped and sealed
Like canopic jars
Awaiting the afterlife
Awaiting release
When stored thoughts
And precious mementoes
Will leap forth
With renewed vigour
From cardboard cages
To stride the open veldt once more
To live and breathe as before
Before time locked them away
In sealed boxes of fate
Unsure of eternity

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