Autumn in South Kensington

Out in the leafy suburbs of South Ken’

I watch the conkers fall

Onto beds of red, gold and brown.

I stare at sycamore seeds that

Take flight,

Drifting lazily

To float softly and airily down.

I see a sunset and sunrise

Through clear skies

Devoid of smog and smoke

And breathe deeply the clean air,

Expand my lungs and I don’t

Cough, splutter or choke.

Then I walk into the swollen belly

Of the mechanical beast

That is taking me underground

Back to the east.

My soul cries aloud,

For it knows that it

Will once again be lost

In a forest of concrete,

An air of contempt and an

Indifferent crowd.

Worry

I worry about things that I probably shouldn’t,

About things that other people probably wouldn’t.

About money even though I’ve got quite a good job,

About what sounds more professional, Robert or Rob.

I panic about parties and what I should wear,

The worry about my manliness as I really shouldn’t care.

I worry that hair gel will highlight my bald spot,

That I will never be satisfied with what I have got.

I worry that I’ll continue to strive and to fail,

An automaton reaching for that mythical grail.

But most of all I worry that I’m not good enough,

That I’ll do something stupid and hurt the people I love.

That they’ll look at me and on closer inspection

Will find me wanting and then hand me a rejection,

And I know that it’s just insecurity,

That it’s fear of being lost to obscurity.

That worrying is just like a rocking chair,

It passes the time but I’m getting nowhere.