I’m making plans for the summer which won’t reach fruition,
I battle my apathy; a war of attrition
Which I will eventually lose.
And yet I continually choose
To fight on towards the same inevitable conclusion,
As if this caged optimism will dispel the illusion
Of my perpetual failure.
Still, stay positive, fight on, never say die…
That’s what happens in the movies, but I think it’s a lie
To draw in the crowds.
Such weakness in heroes is seldom allowed
As self-doubting protagonists only work when used sparingly;
Can you imagine Clint Eastwood constantly despairing? He’s
Too much of a man for that.
And where does that leave me?
I think I was a man once, before all this pain,
And every so often that main rises again –
But briefly, and unseen.
Yet leaving traces of where he’s been
To light the beacons for my beleaguered and broken optimist forces:
Guerillas; freedom fighters; terrorists. Torches
Against the darkness of myself.