Maybe I’m too simple
or too shallow
but I’m not angry.
What’s wrong with me?
I was trying to think
of someone I hate,
Jews, CIS guys, republicans,
palestinians, blacks, democrats,
the left handed, authority figures,
central americans, parents, vagrants,
the usual suspects, but I’m coming up empty
Things aren’t perfect
don’t get me wrong
I’ve got a pug nose
a flat chest
a giant forehead
and too much work to do
but I’m trying my best—
Worse yet, I’ve no plummeting anxieties
no obvious neurosis
—that one could be a misdiagnosis
no painful hangnails
no sad life tales
no addictions to defend
or hated ex-boyfriends
I have no emo hooks to pin my verse.
no current melodramas to cozen and coerce
between you and me, I think I’m off the rails
It’s really no wonder my poetry pales.
Yeah, that’s what’s wrong with me.
.
.
Songs for this:
Gee, Doctor by Dimie Cat
Sweet Lovin' (feat. Anna-Luca & Iain Mackenzie) by Club des Belugas
I’ve not been to Afghanistan
Fred has
He’s seen the summer dust
He’s breathed the summer dust
He’s felt the winter snow
He’s walked the fields
where those other poppies grow
Fred’s eyes have measured the mountain heights
that divide the valleys – that divide the fights
that divide the people of that land
His ears have heard these divided people crying
He has smelt the smells of the dead and dying
And the cries of soldiers – of our land – hurt
By roadside bombs – hidden in the dirt
Tell me Fred
All the dead
Are they a price
oh such an evil price – that must be paid
for people in that land – to be no more afraid
to live their lives free of tyrannical yoke?
We can’t hope to understand – we lucky folk
(Singer/songwriter Fred (Iain) Smith known as “The Singing Diplomat” spent more than a government official living with Australian soldiers in Afghanistan)
So far away from you
Can not watch you grow
Wish you knew you had family here
Who love for you and care for you
But when you grow
And become old
You’ll find out the truth
And you’ll eventually come home