Poetry is Not the Giving Tree

Chillin’ in my chair,
Trying not to stare
Into the distance
As I feel my stance

Wobbly beneath me.
A busy day, costly
To my mind and body.
But brings home for thrifty

Purchases of necessities.
Do you blame me
For leaving early
Today? Every

Day, I give my energy
To my company,
Hell or high sea.
Sometimes I see

How it rearranges me.
I wonder if there could be
Some other job for me,
But it’s not likely.

So, even though
I don’t say no
To opportunity,
My situation tires me.

Could there be
Another way for me
To make money?
Poetry is not the Giving Tree

That I wish it could be.
Skeptically,
You look at me,
Saying, “But it could be!”

Oh, Poetry!
How you edify me!
But you don’t feed me.
Slinking slowly

Out of reality,
I have a fantasy
Of how it could be,
But, alas, I am not free

To write constantly.
I must work to see
My paycheck biweekly
Deposited, usually.

So you ask me,
“Don’t you want to be
All that you could be?”
It is enough for me

To pay my usury.
My creditors love me
For my money,
Not my poetry!

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Ambition

I used to be a very ambitious person.

I used to dream of world peace.

I used to think I would have a great job,

Like a world leader, and then, maybe

 

A college professor in Humanities.

I used to be the kind of person

That might have believed in the saying,

“So little done.  So much to do.”

 

Well, I never was good in groups,

So I wouldn’t do well in the United Nations.

I can’t read very fast, so

Graduate school was not for me.

 

Even after my mental illness hit me,

My ego fought long and hard for something

BIG, something to wrap my dreams around.

Finally I settled.

 

I got a real job, working to pay the bills.

That’s when everyday life hit me square in the face.

That’s when I learned that there are two kinds of people:

Those who make decisions, and those who carry them out.

 

And I found myself to be the latter.

No glory in being a producer,

No recognition in making a buck.

At least for most of us.

 

I guess that’s part of growing up.

You realize you’re not as strong

As you thought you were.

You realize that there is always

 

Someone else who knows more than you.

And, the hardest, you come to see

That there is never enough money.

And dreamers don’t get paid for dreaming.

 

 

(Carry on Tuesday #107, prompt:

The last words spoken by Cecil Rhodes

before his death in 1902)