August could never be a good parent. Too many mood swings for someone so old; too hot one day, rainy the next, windy and cold the day after. August could not even pick out it’s own clothes. August stayed in bed for far too long, self indulgent in a way that can only spell disaster; ice cream for breakfast and concerts at dawn, nights out in the town and marijuana on weekdays, missing work because it was gloomy at 8 in the morning.
August was one half terror, and one half exhilaration; searching for a grand way to live while writing throwaway poetry. August wanted to be a thing of fevers and enthusiasm, but couldn’t help reaching for the nearest cliches. Always arrived with good intentions, arms loaded with self help books, to-do lists and neon highlighters for each day of the week. But August was a compulsive liar and a stress eater. August cheated, on more days than it was allowed. The sheets were soon on the floor, the dish pile growing taller on the kitchen top. August was the first detected, labelled case of bipolar.
Lived in a house where the floorboards creaked, unsteady on it’s feet and weary of being fragile. Clutter was not fertile ground. Told to be stronger, grasp a firmer hold on reality; it went looking. August started digging, tunnelling its way to the core, expecting to find its promised piece of gold. But August is gone now, lost in the depths of oblivion, it’s spirit stifled. And we keep visiting its grave, year after year, returning to make the same mistakes, looking for the famed treasure; find meaning where perhaps, none ever existed.
August was one half terror, and one half exhilaration; searching for a grand way to live while writing throwaway poetry. August wanted to be a thing of fevers and enthusiasm, but couldn’t help reaching for the nearest cliches. Always arrived with good intentions, arms loaded with self help books, to-do lists and neon highlighters for each day of the week. But August was a compulsive liar and a stress eater. August cheated, on more days than it was allowed. The sheets were soon on the floor, the dish pile growing taller on the kitchen top. August was the first detected, labelled case of bipolar.
Lived in a house where the floorboards creaked, unsteady on it’s feet and weary of being fragile. Clutter was not fertile ground. Told to be stronger, grasp a firmer hold on reality; it went looking. August started digging, tunnelling its way to the core, expecting to find its promised piece of gold. But August is gone now, lost in the depths of oblivion, it’s spirit stifled. And we keep visiting its grave, year after year, returning to make the same mistakes, looking for the famed treasure; find meaning where perhaps, none ever existed.
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