Miserable inspiration

Oh God, I not very good at this blogging lark. I only feel like writing something when I'm miserable, which doesn't make for very uplifting reading. I get all melancholy when I read something I wrote when I was miserable.

I have a poem I am quite proud of. I wouldn't for a million years show anyone else. It's far too pathetic and, for want of a better word, miserable. I wrote it when a much-loved ex-boyfriend made it clear, after a horrible couple of weeks of ignored phonecalls and overly-subtle brush-offs, that he didn't love me back. And although my poem might not be a masterpiece, when I reread it I do remember quite intensely how damn miserable that unrequited love left me. That has to count for something, surely?

I'm sort of hoping that when my great-grandchildren are going through boxes of old postcards, recipes, love letters and concert tickets (and I assure you, they are already piling up nicely!) they will come across this poem and suddenly understand what a complex and talented individual I was. "She was a poet and just didn't know it!" my biographer will exclaim with a sigh.

Meanwhile, I'd better be careful my husband doesn't find it. It really is very embarrassing...