It’s hard to find the words to fit the days
When the dominant feeling you embrace is apathy
Poems do not flow out of grey areas
Despite the vast wedges of time sandwiched in between the good and the sad

It's a middle class working life’s unseen style of ennui
Suffering in no kind of silence but the unarticulated tedium that forms from routine

And even so, even in the same act of writing that seeks to gain understanding, it mis-sells itself.
Glamourising or problematising these white lies
Churning them into tides of the fine and the good and the comfortable

How horrible it is to yearn for more struggle
How privileged
How touristic

And still, I want to find a valley
A distance upwards to strain my neck and beg for
Leaving nothing but an aching beat strumming across my body, overwhelming my senses
An indescribable primal urge that reduces me to a single thought with only one adequate course of action that I could bear to live with

That would be... nice
Would be.

As ever, everything is possible
So nothing gets done