Dewey eyed and quite upset
The tears they run his cheeks quite wet
Hands over ears tries to forget
And block out all the noise
That’s all I am writing. I do occasionally dabble in things that might be considered a little deeper but to be honest I don’t really have the experience or the emotional depth to pull it off. Oh I can fake it but that’s not the same is it.
I can listen to a song and transform the sentiment into my own words or the emotions into something different but those feelings are not mine. I can pick a topic and attempt to wax lyrical but I find myself rolling my eyes at myself.
I haven’t had a particularly difficult life and feel very lucky and I often see so many wonderful emotive pieces and get quite envious but then I remember that there are real people and real emotions behind much of what I read and before I know it I am writing about a man from Ceylon who had a pendulous dong instead.
I suppose I could write about the angst of not being able to find my remote control or perhaps write a sonnet about the challenges of having the most untidy garden on the street.
Ooh what about something in iambic pentameter about the challenges of being a white middle class male.
As great as it would be to be able to convey such emotional intensity I realise that I am quite lucky to not necessarily have those things to write about. I realise that when the revolution I will likely be first against the wall. But hey, finding a couple of words to rhyme with gonorrhoea is something right!
Afterwards 