Writer's Block....
The Non Poetic Destiny
Sitting at the bar,
drinking a lonely pint wishing I could write,
singing with Don McLean
and I can’t help but feel that I have nothing to say.
He says, “this’ll be the day that I die”
but I know I could never be so lucky
because now the words have left me
and I’m not fated for a fantastic early exit
or a charmingly creative existence
but instead destined to be something ordinary
something other than
a poet.
No more girl in black spitting words
behind a veil of cigarette smoke.
I’ll wear pastel and floral prints
switching to gum as it is much better for my health.
No dating musicians/painters/sculptors
I’ll marry an insurance salesman and live happily ever after
in financial security.
I’ll set aside the whiskey for afternoon tea.
Late nights, replaced with early mornings.
I’ll move out of a cramped one room city apartment
and into a sprawling country home.
Trade in my hash pipe and rolling papers
for knitting needles and doilies.
Poetry readings for bridge games.
I’ll lose the pink/blue/purple/green/yellow hair dye
for something brown with grey coverage.
Instead of shopping for more tattoos,
I’ll find new ways to hide the ones I have.
Replace my Docs with something more versatile,
perhaps orthopedic.
I will no longer sing in public
I will quietly mind my own business.
Abandoned by poetry
I’m going to be functional.
It has become abundantly clear -
I’m going to be my mother.
Sitting at the bar,
drinking a lonely pint wishing I could write,
singing with Don McLean
and I can’t help but feel that I have nothing to say.
He says, “this’ll be the day that I die”
but I know I could never be so lucky
because now the words have left me
and I’m not fated for a fantastic early exit
or a charmingly creative existence
but instead destined to be something ordinary
something other than
a poet.
No more girl in black spitting words
behind a veil of cigarette smoke.
I’ll wear pastel and floral prints
switching to gum as it is much better for my health.
No dating musicians/painters/sculptors
I’ll marry an insurance salesman and live happily ever after
in financial security.
I’ll set aside the whiskey for afternoon tea.
Late nights, replaced with early mornings.
I’ll move out of a cramped one room city apartment
and into a sprawling country home.
Trade in my hash pipe and rolling papers
for knitting needles and doilies.
Poetry readings for bridge games.
I’ll lose the pink/blue/purple/green/yellow hair dye
for something brown with grey coverage.
Instead of shopping for more tattoos,
I’ll find new ways to hide the ones I have.
Replace my Docs with something more versatile,
perhaps orthopedic.
I will no longer sing in public
I will quietly mind my own business.
Abandoned by poetry
I’m going to be functional.
It has become abundantly clear -
I’m going to be my mother.