My brain is dying, dying, dying
And I am trying, trying, trying
To write with half a brain.
I am just a poetizing Idiot Savant
That doesn’t know what he is doing
But hoping, hoping, he can put his thoughts to rhythm that is so important here.
My desire is to cry, and cry, and cry, and cry,
But I am much too old for that.
And what is crying, but an expression
of the sorrow of depression
of my living much too long.
And because I am not strong,
I cannot end it here and now.
And so I sit, and knit and knit my thoughts
Until they make a tangled web of nothing
I can use to soothe the rubbed raw feelings
over which I have no fragment of control.
Tell me, what do I do now?
I have no god I can appeal to,
So I must sit, and sit and sit
Until my black mood passes,
And I get on with things
That I should really do.
Fred Babbin's Other Poems
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