Dear psychiatrist

I will live
and have the 2.14 kids
and that house in the suburbs
- it is more quiet there -
And I will raise the children
Happy times, sad times
Things to do, gardens to be cut
I think I would be a good father
I'm pretty good with animals anyway

Friends will come and go
Hopefully more grandchildren's weddings towards the end than friends funerals

Events, events
Like jewels, We gather so much of them around us 
Treasuring our memories
Packing them neatly away to protect them
Looking at them from time to time
But they are ornamental pottery, mainly

Any maybe me and my partner will get older together
I'll start to take walks with her instead of going to the gym
My heart can't take the weights these days
Any maybe I'll think less
But complain, about safe things like the new guy presenting "The Late Late"

Any over one, or a few, or many, days I will get sick
You will be with me, I love you, I love all of you
I will close my eyes slowly, hesitantly
A faceless morphine nurse guiding me towards peacefulness

I will embark fearfully under my calm skin
And start to shed my events
- their vogue has nowhere to go, just rubbish now
Maybe the best ones have been borrowed into someone elses head
I will set off in a storm of terror
Somewhere.

July 11