If I lever myself up on tiptoes and stretch
And strain further
And will the whiteness to my fingertips
And tell my head - do it!
If I squeeze one half opened eyeball open
And sneak a burned glance forward -
Then yes
There is sunlight.
There is grass.
There is welcoming shade,
There is laughter and smiles and the gentle touch of shoulders
As friends nuzzle together a silent kinship.
All of that is ahead.
And you must not forget that right now,
As you feel the muddy chill of resignation
Try to wriggle its fingers behind your ribcage,
Lowering a ladder to disappointment and self doubt
And their long time companion:
Who really gives a fuck?
You do give a fuck.
You are not made to squelch in a corner,
Like a deflated sofa, comfortable still,
But past its best.
Your best day has not yet been lived,
It is shining somewhere
And you won\'t even notice it when it comes
Because you\'ll be spinning in the glory of what you\'ve created
Out of you.
Your best day is not today.
But this is not your worst day either.
You can kick away the spindly ladders,
Tighten those fingertips,
Keep a crusted half eye on those little touches of the shoulder
And the sunshine that you can\'t yet feel on your bruised resistance to change.
Things have changed.
Discomfort will only deepen by standing still.
So batten down that crusted eye, slice your fingertips with effort
And move, for fuck\'s sake, move.