It’s not like there was no screaming warning,
No wisp of smoke from the dreaded fire burning.
‘I’m ill.’ I say, although without conviction.
Its unlikely you’d tell anything from my diction.
‘Ok,’ he says ‘It will be a huge shame
To see you go off, so if can name
Some things we can do to help, perhaps?’
‘I dunno.’ I say, ‘it just kinda saps
The joy out of stuff. It makes everything tough.
Like living and breathing. I’ve had enough.’
I can feel myself heading in a desperate direction
With my need to achieve flawless perfection.
I thought I could fight it, I’ve done so before,
But this time I became a mess on the floor.
Where I am now is a shitty situation,
Out of action for a short duration.
Written for The Prompt