I’m sure I’m doing it wrong.
In love with immediacy so long-form isn’t a strong suit.
It’s hard to stay focused on my next move,
when I have no clue how to get from a to b.
See success is the aim but it’s hard not blame
my paltry fame on circumstance.
I can circumspect to my heart’s content,
but no one will fix my literal regrets.
A stanza out of time,
A poor rhyme scheme.
I dream of words that beautifully touch others,
but mine feel like loud yells into the ether.
A vague desire to be successful has been the major driving force for most of my life. I have a good friend who will sarcastically yell “Change the game!” whenever the topic of careers come up. Hers is a good imitation of my tendency to overuse the phrase when describing my ultimate desire in life. Which game exactly do I want to change? I’m not really sure. I think it says more about an inner obsession with legacy, a hope that whatever field I eventually dedicate myself to is better off for having me.
Generally, I like to present stories or ideas with my poetry. Art as communication constantly dominates my thoughts, the ability for an artist to change mindsets with a few carefully planned out lines of text, strokes of a brush or notes on a keyboard is incredible. But this poem is not a story or idea it is pure frustration. For the last week or so I’ve planned and written six different essays on varying topics, all of which now sit re-edited to oblivion in my draft posts.
Every now and again I am reminded of my unfair expectations of self. In critique of self is another poem born out of frustration, that time with the fact I continue to give myself a hard time about being human. It’s hard to have a fully three-dimensional image of yourself. To recognise we are all more inclined to point out our failings rather than our successes.
Currently, I’m learning to redefine successes as an acceptance of my current self and an enjoyment of writing for writing’s sake. I’ll be sure to tell you if it ever sticks.