We’re All Trying and That’s the Problem

I was thinking about-

perhaps a little too much

to be classed

as just a passing thought. 

I was thinking,

thinking about stopping,

stopping and giving in

to the knowledge 

of what I now know. 

I was,

going to do nothing,

as that seemed to be working-

nothing in the most

of my mind

could persuade me

to do so;

so, instead, I was

thinking about,

about doing something

with my life,

something that cannot be classed

as just a passing thought. 

I was thinking,

is it really worth it,

this?

This, waking each morning 

and knowing that I may

go another day unnoticed. 

This, fumbling in my pockets for

nothing but the hope

of survival. 

This, putting it all on the line

for something, I’m still not sure

I can even do. 

I was thinking about-

I was thinking 

about stopping,

giving it all up

and succumbing to normality. 

And knowing,

I knew,

the misery hit 

and I thought about stopping;

stopping the misery,

stopping in misery,

stopping for the sake of-

for the sake of

my already-withering sanity 

to stay intact. 

I thought,

as I’ve said a thousand times;

I thought,

I thought too much,

perhaps a little too much

to be classed

as a passing thought. 

I knew,

I knew it would come to this,

so someone, please,

tell me,

why the hell

did I even start? 

Writer in Vain 

What if I 

don’t want the

attention 

but, the praise;

will it still 

count? 

What about my

face? 

Does it matter that

my skin is awful 

and I have an 

invisible top lip? 

Will the praise 

still come,

even if I’m no one? 

I want to know

because,

well-

nothing will change,

will it? 

I can dream,

I can picture 

my life

as if I were

like them:

beautiful,

with a small amount

of something. 

I’ll imagine it;

I’ll imagine 

being like them,

having

something-

something to cling 

to, as the

talent fades 

and the mind

numbs itself 

in the vanity. 

Where We Go

I was told to get

a ‘real’ job

when my ‘real’ job

didn’t seem to fit

the description of

what they called 

a ‘reality’. 

Apparently 

it is alien to

stay inside all day

and apparently 

it is even weirder 

to stay inside all day and write. 

Perhaps I’m an alien 

but they didn’t like that

so I guess

I wasn’t an alien 

or at least not to them. 

I was useless 

I was wasting my time

but time to them

wasn’t the issue

it was the boldness 

in which I did

it

it frightened them

how I managed to

do what I loved 

and somehow 

survived. 

I somehow survived

for a few months

I didn’t really need

a lot 

but they needed 

everything and they

needed to feel 

everything 

and that’s the- 

the expectations had risen 

and the expectations

we’re expecting me

to fit

somewhere 

and I refused 

to fit 

anywhere 

and so

they put me 

somewhere 

and I quite liked it

there. 

Imagine the Fields

You hung up a portrait

of John Lennon

above my desk;

so whenever I was

foraging for ideas, I

had his eyes, burning

down on me. I suppose

it wasn’t all bad, he

gave me something to

work from, I-

I started writing about

peace, I became a lot

more concerned and I

spent a lot of time

tripping off LSD.

Everything felt warm for awhile

and I met the spirit

of Krishna on my way

out of the house last Tuesday.