I've had my quota of complaining I think,
And feel a familiar weight settle.
First the heavy lie of a smile,
Then the rest of my suit.
I'm used to it now and it's simple,
As easy as 'Thank you, I'm fine',
As glib as 'doing my best',
But it's false as Spring's first promise,
As cruel as Winter's kiss.
Underneath that armour,
I ache and I grieve and rage.
My knuckles crackle electric pain,
And my weary mind won't settle or rest.
It's not simple at all underneath,
Not tidy or quiet or fine,
And the best I can do is so insufficient,
That I'd laugh if I could,
Perhaps some day I will.
Just not today, no,
Just not now.
-M Statham 2015