There are some days
when this gift I have been given
I would give it way.
I would give it away,
I would wrap up
the nausea and the fatigue,
the swimming head and the shaking,
the anxiety and the apathy
in tissue and shiny paper.
I can see it in my head,
a lumpy parcel shivering on the table.
But, to whom would I give my gift,
my shiny present of deceit.
I wouldn’t wish my gift on anyone.
I cannot give it away.
Instead I should kick that parcel as hard as I could.
Make it sky-rocket into space
until it disappears into the stars,
sucked in and imploded by a black hole.
And there is always a ‘but’.
There are other days.
There are other days,
when I open up that parcel. My gift
and out spills
and a thousand words
to describe the world
and all it’s beauty
and I wonder –
if I did kick my gift into the stars
would I chase after it?