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

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