At times you’re forced to meet
The hidden voices in your head.
Find out they scare you shitless,
Wish them damned and dead.
Your head is crammed most painfully
With unanswered ‘why’s.
Hot rage is spilling over
Through your nostrils, ears and eyes.
Rage at what? Oh everything!
Yourself, more than the rest.
For losing faith and certainty
In how you’ll stand The Test.
‘There must be some way out of this’
You growl and groan with passion.
There is- a way that’s not just clean
But never out of fashion.
Set out each conflicted thought
In literary streams.
Give every twinge of fear a place,
Don’t cover up with dreams.
Just pen it all down prettily
(There’s brownie points for rhyme.)
Make it sound intense enough.
And you’re absolved of crime!
Isn’t it supremely easy?
Isn’t it a load of fun?
Why do people moan about
How tough it is to Get Things Done?