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The Sunshine.

I hate the sunshine; it makes my head spin,
The very concept of a gigantic ball of burning gas, 
Hanging in a billion mile room,
And a globe spinning round hurts my head,
The sun reminds me of our silly situation,
Hanging in space pathetically all alone with our own madness,
If it’s infinite then that’s too much, if it’s finite then that not enough,
Claustrophobia and agoraphobia fight the balance,
The sunshine makes the men get excited as if it’s good,
Gives something for them to pin their hopes on,
Warmth, brightness, happy days by the sea,
Their minds turning to love and family and parties,
Aiding their ignorance, pushing their greed.
How can they be so sure?
Why so cocky?
We are just hanging in space around an unstable monstrous ball of burning gas.
It’s pointless and endless and all loves must be lost.
All happiness is passing and painful.
We are all going to die.
Forgive me if I don’t feel like chatting up the brunette at the bar.
War keeps them focused.
No, I hate the sunshine; it makes me small and wretched,
Give me thick black clouds and mountainous stormy sheets of rain,
Give me a roof of thunder blackness to hide under,
Give me a black blue cooling maelstrom.
Its fitting and its true-a backdrop to our terror.
The stillness of a shiny bright white day
Adds intensity to the pointless stupidity of our cause,
Like dissecting an ant on a red hot paving stone,
Give me rich dark wet greens, overflowing rivers
Swaying trees and the roar of the wind
Don’t torment me with you hideous boisterous menacing sun
Don’t remind me of loves and laughs that are gone for ever
Don’t trick my friends into thinking its ok.
Burry them in darkness and cold and wet,
So they my get used to the loneliness and isolation,
So they may let go of hope.

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