Sunday, 20 February 2011

Forty Five

I don’t intend
To spend the next three years
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
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.

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