security versus story

How much longer will I pad the dreams

of others who pay me daily.


Why is my vase full of distracting sand

instead of pebbles that count, that matter.


My true life skills, my singular gifts

are stifled in admin, thoughts of bills.


Striking out, writing stories down

feels impossible, crazy, waste of time.


And so I count, I help, I fix, I support

the sorry souls of others.


But when will it dawn that I could die

with my stories still inside me.

Poem: The Creative Escapee

Your boss is always right, she says,

As she wields a pen of heavy red

That bites and wounds my worried words,

And my former self-belief goes blurred.


Your boss is always right, she mouths,

As my typo sends her humour south.

I hang my head, gut full of shame,

Have all my creative leaps gone lame?


Your boss is always right, she shouts,

As my brain cells begin to cower in doubt:

Is my work that flat, that nondescript,

Does her critique always have to be sour-lipped?


Your boss is always right, she yells,

As I reflect upon this straitjacket hell

Of rigid rules, of constant digs.

A model of how you can’t forgive.


Your boss is always right, she screams

Hysteria’s norm? That’s what it seems.

A dumbed-down doer is all she wants,

But there’s more to me than a size-12 font.


I may type your amends

With intentions well meant

But you can’t reach the real me

‘Cos I’m a Creative Escapee.


So yes, the boss is always right

But the red pen certainly doesn’t delight.

What rules my world is being in sync

With my authentic guide of true-self ink.