the woe of the workaholic

for those never-repeat moments,

shame I don’t have space

is the love of who rubs close

what matters really

 

the time to figure out

life, and youth and heart,

it’s all too consuming, of

the allure of work

 

mood grumping

productivity slumping

I’m a weak iron filing

my desk’s a deadly magnet

 

A poem for Day 30 of NaPoWriMo: a poem in reverse (last line first)

my near-erasure

The pencil, always so poised,

so sharp, so in fashion,

came, one day, to feel its own lead.

The spine within became buckled,

twisted, fantasising

about its own death.

The point became lost,

worn down to a stub, where

nothing, but nothing, was left

but the scratchings of a soul

looking to transcend bereft.

A poem for day 21 of NaPoWriMo 2015: the erasure 

All work, no play

Work always comes first,

the boldest diary colour

that turns everything else pale.

It dominates the pages, edging all the

fun bits out, leaving me isolated

to the point I must be insane.

Work is my safety, my go-to place of peace.

It blocks out spontaneity, seizes signs

of naughty and caprice.

Work has stolen precious time

with my wonderful only child:

“Mummy doesn’t play,” she says.

“She kind of works a lot.”

To hear her truth said out loud

touches a lonely place at core.

But I really don’t know how to play,

which must make me a desperate bore.

A poem for Day 20 of NaPoWriMo 2015: state what you know