~ No Sale ~

~ No Sale ~

My books don’t sell much
But that’s okay
It still makes me feel good
Just to spit out some sentences
That come from some strange space inside
Where sunlight can’t survive.

It’s a world run by money
And what is a man to do when
His passion doesn’t translate to a job role.

Do what you’re passionate about,
And you’ll never work a day in your life

Oh yes, we’ve all heard it before
The ignorant sentence that means nothing
To poets and people who can’t fit into
The positions of conventionality.

I consider my other options outside of creative writing:
There are things like copywriting and journalism
Where you write about stuff you’re not interested in
As you slowly lose your passion and energy
For writing your own stuff.

It’s a slightly annoying situation, I must say.

I was only given this one talent
I’m an introverted daydreamer
With no practical or pragmatic skills
I’m living with some form of undiagnosed condition:
Possibly ADD, autism, or dyspraxia
Or all of them together.

It’s not the best set of cards to have, admittedly.

But you’re intelligent,” they say,
Totally unaware that being intelligent
And being compatible with a certain system of society
Are two completely different things.

Oh well, for there to be insiders,
There need to be outsiders.
It’s a universal law; one which I keep in check
As I wander this wilderness
With my unread words.

No point at this stage in trying to fit in
And do something different
No point at this stage in trying to be normal
And fail once again.

Time for me to accept who I am.

Let me sink into my groove of eccentricity
Let me drink the beers and scribble on stained pages
Watching the world go by from the window of a bar
On a Monday afternoon.

This is my space;
As the successful men of the world stare at me
And continue in their sane lives
Going to and from their workplaces
Their wives and their children.

I face down to the page once more
The pen knows it’s time to paint words
And let all the stuff that stirs inside of me
Show its strange face to the world.

It knows it’s time to let the world know
That there’s one more madman
Who believes he has some art within him
Another daft, deluded daydreamer
Who thinks that following his own voice
And doing his own thing
Can somehow bring anything
Other than madness, loneliness
And, most probably,
An early death.