On O’s recommendation, M and I watched 1917 late last night. As the final few seconds of the film played, the first line of the below just popped into my head. I think it started as a meditation on courage and that there’s someone always worse off than us (and probably braver), and morphed into a thought piece about depression. I don’t normally write rhyming poetry unless I’m writing lyrics, so this is a very strange piece. M liked it, and so do I. And I wrote it today gone midnight, so it counts as today’s original piece of writing.
We think we are the walking wounded
The ones that life missed out.
We think we are the footsore,
The ones life left in doubt.
We think we are forgotten angels
The ones death left behind,
The winged and flaming spirits,
The only of our kind.
We think we are the chosen ones
Whose wounds bleed crimson gold.
We are part of those legions
Living with minds born old.
We are the chemically unbalanced,
The terminally depressed,
The medicated millions
The sane think are possessed.
R 10/07/2022 00:40
AGGIE’S ART OF HAPPINESS – CHAPTER 144