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)

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lament of lonely

Alone,

I review

what I’ve done.

Alienated,

I question

what I’ve said.

Abused,

I wonder

what I deserved.

Bereaved,

I imagine

being alive again.

Happy?

I’ve forgotten

what it’s like.

A poem for day 27 of NaPoWriMo 2015: hay(na)ku

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

Trust vs Fear: the creative writer’s dilemma

Fear:

I creep around, spying other’s glory

through shrouds of envy and spite.

I stress, I spew belligerent bile,

I despoil what feels my birthright.

 

Trust:

If you only knew what your heart could spill.

If you only could allow

those creative gales to transform your gall

into work that makes you feel proud.

 

Fear:

That gale just feels like a deadly whip

that will beat my words to a pulp,

reducing me to a limping pace

while the rest of the world can gallop.

 

Trust:

Gallop implies a race to somewhere

while your journey is yours alone.

Pick supreme, your heart’s main theme,

and you’ll romp to the place called home.

 

A poem for Day 14 of NaPoWriMo 2015: A dialogue

Unlucky thirteenth?

Who knows how many times we’ve split:

Is it five, nine, twelve times, or more?

Whatever.

Each time, we end back right where we started:

Square one. No better, no further.

The same old reunion,

the promises made anew.

Waiting for the other to change,

and no change beginning to come.

Then the same old fights,

scrabbling down the same old paths

of recognition and delusion.

So I wonder if this time, when we finally split for real

– for probably the thirteenth time –

will it possibly be lucky for some?