Sad
It’s a sad way to live, she said
Only being known for what you hate
Having nothing good to say
In the world of overwhelming beauty
Your outlook is now inward
Collecting perceived slights
And storing them under your bed
In a box from the 1950s
You were given everything
Indoor plumbing and central heating
A job for life
And the final salary pension
But the dark black glass
Rectangle of doom brought fear
And the threat that people
With nothing would take everything
Remember the war?
We had nothing but we were happy
Now we have everything
And are miserable
Thoughts
This poem was inspired by the number of people I know who moan about everything being terrible from the comfort of a £2000 leather chair.
Somebody built this wall with their hands. Hard, slow graft.
© John Monaghan 2025. All Rights Reserved
