Only me; adrift

Bah!
More blasted self-pity
I hate it and abhor it
but have enough time to dip my knees
and wallow in it from time to time,
Might as well do it myself
seeing as no one else can rightly spare a damn to.

Well at least this
melancholy
motivates me enough to write some words.
Slowly stoking fires of resentment
until I can batter out my scorn
hammering my hate upon anger's anvil
dark dreadful feels
to herald imperious irritation,
enough to slash at my saddened soul

With a far off cure
being a good fuck,
or two, or three,
or thirty,
with someone who can smirk at sadness
while their eyes speak rivers
knowing some pains wound too deep for sound.

They would know it is better to screw around today
than look beyond our mortal future
falling further into maddened fear,
while missing the little things
like perfect sausage rolls
and a good brew
while Armageddon screams outside
or the next apocalypse shakes things up
throwing folks out of their comfort chairs
enough to care about life for a fleeting moment
and dip their toes
in the sea I am adrift on

Choking, Spluttering, Shivering
clothed in cowardice
afraid of living utterly alone,

But I am British
so I Keep blindly Buggering On
and should keep my emotions in a vault.
Yet no one could have warned me,
I would start in another castle
foreign in unfamiliar ways,
with a riddle wrapped around my soul.

Words only go halfway to reaching shore.