You want to be a writer,
Well that’s a joke,
Boredom is the only emotion you evoke.
You’re washed up and worthless.
And your writing is worth less
Than the lies that you tell,
And I never could tell
Why you thought you’d be worth more than this.
The only people reading your words
Are your friends and your mother,
And even then they discover
That you’re wasting your life
Chasing dreams you will never achieve.
Who are you trying to deceive?
Your friends?
Family?
Yourself?
Well how’s that working out?
Get a real job.
You’re smart.
Use your degree,
Or you’ll end up on your knees
In the dirt.
And don’t pretend to be hurt,
When I speak the truth.
Do you need any proof?
Look at yourself,
Stop.
And really look.
Who is the one that is speaking?
It’s your words you’re thinking.
Your lies you’re drinking.
Yourself you’re deceiving
Into believing that somehow this is achieving.
You’ll never be perfect,
Or worth it,
Or deserve it.
You’ll stay the same as you age,
A dream and minimum wage.
You wanted to look after your family,
Your words were meant to look after your family.
But you can barely look after yourself,
Let alone anyone else.
You claim to be ready,
Mentally steady,
But isn’t it time to get out of bed already?
One step,
One foot,
But you’ll wait until tomorrow because then “you’ll be good”.
Be good for what?
Good enough to watch another chance come a leave?
Good enough to see another friend succeed whilst you do nothing?
Good enough to lose the final people in your life who have tried to care?
Good enough, maybe that’s all you can be, good enough.
But that isn’t good enough for me.
Your inner voice is right and you know it.
Look at you work and see that it shows it.
This dream that you have,
Wake up and close it.
You’ll only blow it.
Not much of a writer,
And you try to be a poet?
You’re a joking.
Your broken.
Your words stay unspoken.
They should stay unspoken.
They’re not worth the cost of the paper they’re printed.
You want to be perfect?
Whilst you sit in a mess,
Festering regret.
Letting life pass you by and claiming
“This isn’t my best,”
yet you sit and do nothing.
When will your best come?
When you are dead and are rotting?
Forgotton,
Forgetting that life is worth more than regretting,
Still betting on wishes,
On make-believe tales.
Got what it takes?
Don’t make me exhale.
Jennifer Pickering 