Going nowhere

That’s it.

I quit.

I can’t do this anymore.

What the hell is it even for?

When everything’s already been said?

You think that’s an original thought in your noggin?

It’s the same shit everyone's flogging.

You’re hopeless, you’re clueless, just hand yourself in.

Though trying, and failing, is hardly a sin,

And perhaps just because it’s already been said

Doesn’t mean you can’t say it in your own head,

And perhaps this is worth something yet.

And yet.

Do you see this blank page? There’s stuff on it now.

It could have been great but this crap wont wow,

This won’t change the world, this opens no minds,

This ruffles no feathers and leaves as it finds

And you’re kidding yourself if you think you’re investing

In something that’s worth it, something interesting,

That you have what it takes, in this ocean of fish,

You’re a minnow, or plankton, with a ludicrous wish.

Its vanity, you know, and vanity’s alright

If you keep it proportionate, if in the cold light

Of morning you buckle up, and stay in your lane

And nurture the spark but don’t fan the flame.

So is this how we leave it? A tinkering trifle,

Weaker than sword, or arrow or rifle?

Fun, worth a dabble.

We all had our dreams, no one wins all,

Gambling more would lengthen the fall.

But what are you saying? That you’re scared of failure?

That’s never been you, a fair weather sailor.

And what has it cost you to sail in rough seas?

You spend so much time down on your knees.

Exhausted, embattled, dreaming of calm,

But knowing you lived, though life dealt you harm,

Also beauty and strength, joys and wonders,

That getting stuck in means making some blunders

And there’s nowt wrong in that.

But its TIME is it not, and you sell your time cheap

If you only suck at an empty teat.

There’s another “but” though, and this is a big one,

We don wings to escape, not to melt in the hot sun.

Does it matter, the rest, if you’re finding your pleasure

Must we kill it with business if we love it for leisure?

If we love it for leisure, then that’s enough, surely,

To work for ourselves, simply and purely?

Perhaps that is all you can give yourself now?

When each day you say you’re wondering how

You can get to the next one and then face it again,

And life hurtles on, an unstoppable train,

And you missed the right carriage too many years back,

But here you are, still on the same track,

At the end of the line you’ll be dead just the same,

And only a few to remember your name.

This carriage could be much worse.

I read, to succeed, you must take yourself seriously.

The cynic in me answers back, imperiously,

“That’s not advice for people like you,

You’re a child, you’re an amateur, in all that you do”.

And I wonder how come she’s so self-assured,

When she lives in my head, and yet she’s inured

To the doubt that she casts on all things.

But she’s right, I am weak, I’m haphazard and bumbling,

And trying for more would likely be humbling,

And again I come back with “but that would be fine,

Except, in truth, I just don’t have the time.”

So here I will stay, I suppose, accepting

I’ll rehash exactly what you’re all expecting,

And wait for a pat on the head and that pearl,

“Well done, good job, you’ve been a good girl.”

&&&&&&

Authors note: A week or so ago I did something I have never done before. I attended an online lecture in creative writing. It was short, only half an hour, but I really enjoyed it. But here's the catch. It was free. It was free because it was promotional. To attend I registered my interest in undertaking a creative writing Masters course, all the while laughing with my family at how funny that was. Of COURSE I am not going to do a Masters in creative writing. I'm a middle aged woman. I work, I have children, I am busy. I already have a Masters, in an unrelated subject, and I KNOW how much work that is. And even if I had the time, it's an awful lot of money to spend on what? Its taking a hobby too far, no? Because I am not good enough, will never be good enough, to "make it" as a writer. Its a false investment.

And yet.... "This is a sales pitch" I told myself. "And we're buying, right?" said me.

We are not buying, but the experience has prompted some writing related angst, as you can see. This was going to be a short poem, and it wasn't going to rhyme, stream of consciousness and all, but it hit a rhythm and kept going like one of those perpetual motion ball thingies people bought to put on their desks before mobile phones and Snake came along. So, apologies.