Forty Five

I don’t intend

To spend the next three years

Comatose

Subdued by doses of,

“I’m not good enough/

Wait ‘til the time is right,”

That keep me

Up at night

And I’m going to admit it:

That I’m

Aimless

Floating waywardly against

Or with a current.

I’m not currently sure

Of my direction

And this was fine

At least

For a little while

While I whiled away

The time spent locked deep

Inside myself

In the darkest realms I’ve ever delved to

(Excluding the bottom of the biscuit tin)

But now this has rolled over and off of me

Harmlessly (at least mostly) and

I find myself stranded

Without an OS map to guide me

And my insides turn like spinning coins

With the anxiety of it all:

The fear after the fall and not before

And what now to do?

Because I’ve sat and stewed here long enough:

Thoroughly tenderised and absolutely petrified

At least I can move

At least I have the privilege

To spend an age on Facebook

And wail about getting nothing done.