Mad and Grey

I know, with hindsight, I am mad,

But never when it counts.

I see my trail of grand delusions,

Pointless arguments, the sad

Attempts to describe concisely,

Ideas comprehended imprecisely.

I see, over my shoulder,

That these don't amount

To what I hope they will.

In positive moods, on sunny days,

When nothing seems utterly futile,

When the still small voice of self esteem,

Calls from somewhere faraway,

I listen and think that I might redeem

Something of what I might have been,

Think things will be different,

Now I'm older.

I imagine something really worthwhile,

Might emerge from this sudden energy surge,

And I write, and fight, and think I'm right,

And urge myself on in what I must say.

But it's just a way of passing the day,

Playing, or writing,

It's mad and exiting,

And it stops life being grey.

But greyness is safe,

It is really not bad,

It allows you to hide,

And it lets you be calm

Though it squashes your pride.