An Exercise in Futility

Dear Person,

It’s uncomfortable to constantly be on guard.
Worrying about the things you say and do being judged.
Not misjudged.
A selfish, shamelessly self-centred organism.

But, I’m comfortable enough to tell you this.
I’ve been thinking a lot
About the pointlessness
Of any emotion that isn’t self-serving.

So, what is this big fuss about love?
The existence of which is in itself highly debatable

I think.
But what do I know?

The stark futility of expressing to people
How you feel about them,
when they clearly don’t need it –
Evolved, self-sufficient bastards.

So why tell you that you’ve been on my mind?

Memories of you make me feel empty.
I do not love you unconditionally;
I do not want to possess you;
I do not dream of touching you;
I am not enamoured.
In truth, I don’t even really like you.


You were real.

You were here,
I “felt” things.
Like I was more
Than just an organism.
Like my meaningless existence
Was completely acceptable.
Like I wasn’t alone.

I miss you.



(happy) new year

Years have gone by.
It was inevitable.
You’re less and less enamored
By the newness of new.

Seen enough
To know first-hand;
That all that glitters
Can just be as new

As a hooker before dark
Bathed and perfumed,

And untouched
By You.

New today is old tomorrow –
Tale as old as time.
Yet the promise of newness;

Of firsts and opportunities,
Of beginnings and the unseen?
A trap as beguiling and vicious

As knowledge.

Refresh. Restart.
But you can’t erase your past.
Yesterday’s gone,
It’s a brand new Today.

But you’re only as new today
As you’re old tomorrow.

digital friendships

They are beautiful, bright and reasonably happy.

They say they’re like me;
They have the same fears,
As vulnerable and fragile.
They have the same past.

Pain and anxiety.

Appearing to think
Just like I do.
To talk and reason
Just like I do.

They seem to have access
To that part of my soul,
Where security levels
Are as low as my spirits.
That place that decides
Whom to let in.

Whom to keep out.

Intellectual arrogance
Or low self-esteem?
Either way
They’re up there in the sky.
Flying, while I sit looking upwards
My neck and back weary,
On this cold lonely bench.



‘Cause they are beautiful, bright and reasonably happy.
A clique more exclusive than they’ll ever let on.