So there I was
In Rathmines
A place and a half
Bored off my brain
Not knowing what in God’s name to do with my time
Coffee in hand
Surely things were fine
I mean… I was grand
Wasn’t I?
Then I decided to write a poem
Spent the best part of my week up in Dublin
Had done what I’d come to do
Poetry reading – tick
Little of this, little of that – tick
So here I sit
Waiting for it to all come together
Don’t get me wrong
The OCD, it still pesters
Even though I’ve been taking it down as best I can
Problem
I’m wondering if I like myself all that much
As time runs on and I realise that I have to stop using my diagnosis for a crutch
Am I still thinking too much?
That’s the problem right there
To leave it alone completely
Stop trying to find an answer
Or else I’ll end up back inside hospital
The last thing I want
People don’t see it
So I need to not see it
Not feel it
Or else I’ll be wasting more of my time knocking on that all too irrational door
So I’m going to give up the rhyme right here
Steer clear… WOOPS!
It’s just too perfect
A danger in itself
So what if my poetry ends up on an old dusty shelf
I did it again with my all too rhyme-laden pen
No publisher to call my own might be fine
I always said I’d prefer good mental health over a book deal
Didn’t I?

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