Friday, 11 February 2022

The musings of a would-be memoirist

 Sometimes it’s just too hard to write

                and my meandering sentences

                                don’t find a place

                                                to settle.

Ideas flit like butterflies

                my attention

                                                wanders

aimlessly

                                from place

                to place                                quite far away

                                                and separate.


How can I join the dots

                                and focus?

 

My self-sabotage is legendary

                at least in my own head

                                where I am the star of my own show.

 

And yet all too often writing is just too hard…

 

How do I convey to you

                the complexities

                                of my thought process?

 

I was told once

                I was ordinary

                                Everyone feels the same way,

 

I was affronted by that!

 

Didn’t he know I was special?

                Unique,

                                a true revolutionary,

                                                trailblazing pioneer!

To be ordinary,

                like everybody else?

                                Oh, the horror!

 

I want to stand out … and yet

                so often I want to hide and not be noticed

                                comparison could be unfavourable

                                                and what if no one understands?

                                               

Is that why it is so hard to write?

 

Can I find the time?

                Do I carve out minutes

                                for my-self indulgent

                                                twaddle?

Will anybody care?

 

Sometimes it’s just too hard to write,

                until I pick up my pen

                                and spoil this pristine page with scribble.

 

I’m going to need another notebook

                for the good stuff

                                while this will be hidden

 

Unless - I publish anyway

                and become the viral sensation,

                                that I obviously deserve to be.

 

But then it doesn’t happen

                and I wallow

                                I throw the pens

                                                I tear the paper

                                I stamp my feet, collapse in a heap.

 

It’s difficult to write when you are crying

                although I’ve mastered the art of while I drive

 

Tears flow freely like the ideas,

                the words that tumble

                                while I have no pen to hand

                                                are amazingly fluent and creative

                                award winning literature

 

But here and now as I doodle

                a flower

                                a box

                                                a dreamy white cloud

 

It’s just too hard to write

                so I give up

                                   and make a cup of tea instead.

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