Stuck; The Poem

A simple poem I wrote a long time ago about feeling stuck in a country with generations of trauma built into a nation; we can't help but love it.

It’s so grey and comfortable here,

The loneliness connecting us together.

Where would we be without this weather?

The cold grey, in your bones it rains.

The same old same, “put your coat away,”

before the darkness gets your soul.

Before you lose your control, you sit by the fire.

The flames extinguish the pain and the orange you admire,

it’s so warm in here, you relax, it goes away.

“Take your shoes off son its been a hard day.”

“I could feel the clouds on my shoulders, did you see the grey?’

The old man boulders, “all I’ve known is the grey, at least it was a nice shade.”

It’s always the same, the shops, the change, the smell of the air.

“It doesn’t get any better than this,” they all despair.

The pints are great to be fair, but it doesn’t heat the heart.

I guess whiskey does, but not in the way I love.

It loves me, it fools me,

Then leaves me without any warning.

I guess it’s the Irish goodbye forming.

But we love the people, we really do, sure we get to complain.

Get to say “we’re on our last legs if God will grant another day."

“Sure, why would you leave when you’ve grown so comfortable with the grey?”