On those days I want to scream.
I want to take the car, leave the city
drive to an empty field somewhere
(preferably close to the motorway)
with no-one around but a couple of sheep
to witness how it’s all too much for me to handle.
But screaming makes my throat ache
and hillside hikers would point my way
while the sheep stare at me like I’m crazy.
Instead of relieved I’d feel embarrassed
and sad about the Greenland ice
I’m melting with my pointless car ride.
On those days I want to smash.
I want to grab the nearest object
fucking hurl it against the wall
shatter it into a thousand pieces
to make a statement to the world:
I’m not taking it all quietly.
But the nearest object is that mug I like
and smashing it would startle the cats.
Sudden movements hurt when I don’t warm up first
and I’d have to clean the coffee stain off the wall
all the while wondering if I should post pictures
and sell out my weltschmerz for likes.
On those days I want to believe.
I want to not care that God was invented
by angry, tired, swamped men and women
to make sense of what they didn’t understand.
On those days I too feel swamped, angry, tired
and there’s so much I don’t understand.
Like how many lullabies before the baby goes to sleep?
Why did I have to lose the brain chemistry lottery?
And if I could indeed choose to believe
would it make those days go away
or would I just lie there and wonder
how many lullabies before I go to sleep?