Analysis.

Bleeding my life out onto a page

is quite the chore.

Probably because I have no idea

whether or not I actually have one,

or am trying to live many.

. 

I attempt it anyway

in the prose form I prefer;

hundreds and thousands of words

that are supposed to represent

my personality and my feelings.

. 

Lists of rights and wrongs,

dos and don’ts,

successes and failures,

hopes and fears and

all the other crap in-between.

. 

I don’t really get anywhere,

at least not at first.

Not until I realise that I’m

just clinging on to the past –

so I slap myself, in view of everyone.

. 

It works – people stare at me

like I’m some kind of lunatic,

but afterwards I feel a lot calmer.

I order a coffee and some cake,

and proceed to write something less sentimental bullshit.