Attempt

I

Attempt after attempt is made to step away
from the strife I have created inside,
and the only realisation I can stumble upon
is that it is raining outside in the real world.
Blessed emancipation is stifled by the hours
spent grappling with shop chores and
shunting along stubborn people whose brief prosperity
has them believing they are entitled to more.
Fatigue sets in, then, and slows the mind,
killing the will for endeavour and progress,
and sucking dry my belief in hope and love,
the two shaky pillars that have come crashing
down around me, taking everything else with them.
The futility of earning to stand still is
beyond comprehension, while my twitching
fingers show a man bearing the brunt of the loss
he suffers when faced with the dreaded writer’s block.

II

The pen is my release, and the withdrawal
and resulting raggedness from my daily dosage
has dulled my expression and killed my spirit.
I pocket my hand to stop the nervous shaking
and to hide the questions trembling fingers bring,
but they bury with them some lessons harshly learned:
such as how reason must be sought and fought for
because it is not a divine right and never will be;
and how motivation must come from within
one’s soul and heart because when both become
battered, broken and bitter, apathy sets in;
and how talent is as talent was and will always wither
when subjected to the reality that a place on the
pedestal is not the destiny meant for everybody;
and, finally, how the only true person responsible
for chasing me into this cordoned-off piece of room
with no pen or paper is myself for not being the best I can be.

III

So, my name has reached few, yet more than some -
but isolation has limited me, with stories lost.
Having been so cavalier for so long in
gallivanting with words across the lives
of those known and unknown - carelessly
constructing thought as if it were gospel
gobbled up by strangers and loved ones -
the truth suddenly hits in supplementary fashion
that nobody cares what I have to say;
because all I have to say is about myself and my woes,
which have only ever been self-inflicted, with finger
pointed in denial at somebody else all the time.
With words I have walked farther than most men
without ever moving a step, but now I am stuck -
and with ambition, reason, drive and hope
all crushed in my pocket with this truth, I can only think
of how my youth has been pissed away at twenty-one.