The Dog Days of summer are on us
When nothing ever happens
And we can’t be arsed to try.
When life is become drudgery
And we treat it accordingly.
We do nothing or little or less,
We just pass the time
In our own grudging ways.
The sentence of life
Loses meaning for us
And the meaning of life
Makes no sense.
We rise in the morning
With no purpose in mind,
The skies up above us too blue
And the air is too airy,
The sun is too sunny,
And the world is too worldly to bear.
What to do on these days,
What to do?
Some of us turn the wrong way,
Find things to burn, people to hate.
Some find new ways to hate themselves
And buy chemical dreams
To make their lives better and worse.
It’s just a question
Of personal perception
Or inclination.
Some do the right thing:
Stand still;
Let the days flow over them;
Feel the time
Of their life
In their hands;
Just trying to pass
The days that are dying,
That pass by too slowly.
Me, I pick up a guitar
And play it improperly;
Or start a story
And then write it wrongly;
Or even try poems
For no reason or rhyme
Than just bloody trying
To pass the time
Rightly
In these dog days of summer.
Writing Me Up 