The last poem I ever wrote. Not a very good one. The Notes are more
interesting (see
http://www.dgdclynx.plus.com/poetry/library/confessional.html)
Confessional poem
Fifty years ago the future looked like a nightmare.
Fifty years later looking back it has been a nightmare.
I have avoided life
By playing the brilliant dreamer,
As my beloved Susan posited,
As my poet friend William spotted.
I am not a poet.
I am a schizotype,
Who delves into schizophrenia and bipolarity.
It is not for love of language that I write
But to protect my fragile ego from insanity,
By bearing witness to my life.
My emotions are like a girl having sex who doesn't achieve orgasm.
Sensitivity is there but also a barrier to normal human feeling.
Nobody is evil but some are twisted.
Poison.
I do not understand why some people like me.
Unnatural.
I am at home with cats.
I bury them in my back garden when they die.
And look for a new kitten.
I know death. I have been there
But it would really have been better never to have existed.
The last fifty years have been a little difficult.
And before that it was worse.
The future frightens me.
Douglas Clark, Bath, Somerset, England ....
http://www.dgdclynx.plus.com
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