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)
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.
inktuition 