That type of day

Now don’t you worry, I’m really okay
I’ve just been having a type of a day
You know the day, you’ve had it as well
The kind of day that can just go to hell

It’s that certain day that starts just off mark
Like sudden drizzle on a picnic in the park
Not worthy of anger, or fury, or rage
More like cutting your finger while turning the page

And nothing goes quite right, but not wrong enough
To make you complain that times sure are tough
Sure, you can handle it, no trouble at all
Just all of the shit, combined, ruins it all

That certain type of day you wake up just wrong
Your shoelaces break ’cause you pulled them too strong
You got there on time, but the train isn’t there
People cutting in front, no one’s being fair

And they’re talking too loud, they just cannot shut up
While you’re burning your lip as you’re spilling your cup
You only just make your meeting, but it’s cancelled, of course
You’re cleaning up messes that are in no way yours

And you find yourself saying, at least it can’t get worse
Thus uncannily causing some cynical curse
Making everything break, crack, snap, crumple and fall
And you’re quietly sighing: to hell with it all

People’s mouths still all talking, with nothing to say
You want everyone to please just go away
All you want is some quiet, you just want to be home
And for all of the assholes to leave you alone

Surely in the great balance, the quota are met
Do we really need so many apples be bad ?
We can make this world work fine with just a few less
Then maybe we wouldn’t all be in this mess

But no, I’m not hateful, or bitter or sad
Not hostile or sour, not cross, vexed or mad
Not angry, not pissed off, not feeling like shit
No, perhaps I’m just cranky. Just maybe. A bit.

Dit gedicht verscheen in
“Onderop De Stapel Rechts”

De vierde dichtbundel van René van Densen verkent als thema verhuizen, transitie van één situatie naar een andere. Waarbij je altijd dingen kwijtraakt, maar er ook iets nieuws ontstaat, gesymboliseerd door kleine poëziedoosjes die je kunt uitknippen en die een nieuw gedicht vormen, maar waarbij je dan wel zes andere gedichten moet laten verdwijnen. Verdeeld in metaforische ruimtes in een nieuw huis verkent Van Densen wat je wel of niet mee moet nemen.
“Er lopen tig dichters rond in Nederland en Vlaanderen die al blij zouden zijn met de kruimels die van van Densens tafel vallen.” – Anton Voloshin