Poetry for Peace Day 20: Psychopoetics

This is yesterday's poem, Day 20, and I'm freakin' late again. Never mind. here it is. I'll work on today's poem later tonight. Quite a lot of pressure trying to come up with something every single day, whether tired, busy or just not in the mood.
But surprisingly as time goes on I find this is fun and a lot better than vegetating in front of the TV or joining in people's shrill hysterics on Facebook. It actually seems to have a calming effect and an increasing sense of fulfillment (the poetry that is, not Facebook). I recommend every poet do this. 

In fact, everyone whether a poet or not. It's like I invented a new form of therapy. Let's call it Psychopoetics (or some less bonkers-sounding title if anyone can come up with one). Whatever one calls it, it is a whole lot better than having one's brain damaged by some degenerate loon of the psychiatric profession and it places no financial or other burden on the Health Service either. 

Just task yourself to write a poem each day on whatever comes to mind - just for the hell of it and not too seriously. Contact your inner artist and you'll feel a whole lot better. Why not join me?

So I am calling this poem Psychopoetics. It has nothing to do with the content of the poem really but it is not every day I get to invent a word (although in one of my novels I did invent the word "flince" which is a combination of wince and flinch|).

Psychopetics

by Steve Cook

Each day come dawn I wake and feel relieved I'm still alive
As if for fear my soul be claimed by sleep, I don't know why.
And I'm struck by the sense I'm out of date or out of time
As if some tryst with fate I'd miss, by tardiness deprived.

And striving for my goals, I always give them my best shot,
Yet the bull's eye's mostly missed as if my aim is slightly off;
Or writing my own script I contrive to lose the plot
And discover with chagrin I cannot edit it one jot.

Perhaps in all this living there's some joke I did not get
Or the the universe got started out of mischief or for a bet,
Yet the fat lady isn't singing and there's no whistle from the ref;
There's everything to play for still, for the game's not over yet.

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