Office Tweeter Socially Benchmarking

Ah, the way the wind blows

Matters not to men in offices insulated

But ask the fisherman casting his net on the soul grating sea

Or the red cheeked child with ebullient eyes

To whom the parade of kites portrays a world of rainbow possibility.

Ah, the comma. Just a squidgy dot, waste of space

Matters not to the frenetic tweeter

But ask the teacher who commits her life

To a generation

Who’ll either plant trees or start fires,

Depending on whether they had enough time

To, for reflection, pause.

Ah, the pen marks on the wall

Scars on the beautiful flower pattern

To the Joneses.

For the mother, a reminder timeless of days innocent

Before Responsibility’s wings

Flew her young from the nest.

Hamish Kamoshi ©2015

Giving Up

I can’t cope with the fact I can’t cope

can’t feel the numbness I can’t feel

can’t hide the pain I can’ t hide

but

 I hope one day I’ll have hope.

 I’m holding on to barbed wire

to stop the razors of resentment

from cutting, bleeding me dry;

banging my head against a wall

to prevent my skull from fracturing,

jumping off a cliff to stop myself

taking my own life.

Sorrows never drown

because Memory is too fucking good at resuscitation.

I dig myself a hole

because I’m split in half

one way up, one way down

in-between a smile and frown

nothing to verb, just a hollow noun.

Burning my flesh to keep from feeling

that incinerating chill

crawling within my cells 

sucking out my will.

Still I stand on a rotating circle,

 always at square none,

giving up always,

always getting started never.

At the end of the old rope’s last thread

I’ve given up on everything,

even giving up itself.

There is, then, nothing left to do

but try one more time.

Hamish Kamoshi © 2014