A Delicate Balance and 11 P.M. Saturday

By Ian Copestick

A Delicate Balance

I was just looking
through my note
book. In the last
4 months, since
everything
in my life went
horribly wrong.

Since my beloved
woman of 18 years,
and then my father
died, I've had 10 new
poems published.
Before I used to get
that many published
in 1 month.
When I was younger, I
used to think that being
depressed helped my
writing.
Heartbreak gave me
something to write about.
If that was ever true then
it obviously isn't anymore.

I guess it's a delicate
balance.
If I'm too happy, then
I'm too busy enjoying
life to write about it,
but when I get too
depressed it seems as
worthless, and futile as
everything else.

I need to cheer myself
up.
Just not too much. 

11 P.M. Saturday

I sit here, my soul gored,
ripped, tattered beyond
belief. I'm listening to
cool jazz at 11 p.m.

I ache all over, I have no
idea why. Perhaps it's
just because I'm getting
old. In five weeks time
I will be 49. I never thought
I would live past 30, so I
should be pleased, and look
upon these years as a bonus.
That's hard to do though,
when the years are as bad
as this one has been.

The music helps though,
jazz isn't my usual cup of
tea, but occasionally I
find it to be really soothing.
Kind of like a good, hot bath,
and then a night under clean
sheets.

God, THAT shows just
how old I am, when that's
my idea of a good night.