Days Like This



Days like this make me wish I could paint. Violent, defined brushstrokes and splatters. Probably a lot of black. DEFINITELY a lot of black.
Or if I could sculpt it would be sullen. And lumpy.
“Squat Anger”….I could call it.
To try and write it out of my system would only result in a verse reading something like;

“dark. dark and mad. angry. I’d like to thump you on the head. go away…” 

Catchy? nyah. I didn’t really think so.
A poets soul is reflected in their writing……so they say.
(side note – who is they? no clue)
But for right now, I am not going anywhere near that reflection. *shudder* Because I think it would be scary…..
Maybe tomorrow…..




About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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