You wake up in the morning
You don’t know which side of life you are on
The positive and negative fighting
No wonder you are feeling so crap
Words of praise
From the eccentric maze
That’s social media
Follow count rises
Like some demented phoenix
Who just won’t burn up

Who am I to call myself a writer
An artist a poet a reader of prose
When I’m just stealing words from society
And stepping on everyone’s toes
I’m inadequate and therefore a fraud
I should not have posted all that junk
My self doubt likes to hang out
With the kid I once was, the stupid punk

I’m making enemies out of my shadows
My soul is trying to strangle me
When I’m buried in artistic concrete
It seems I’m drowning in self pity
I need to work harder and longer
If I’m going to crawl out if this
How can my 1000 poems compete
When even my life is hit and miss

I’m incompetent and out of my depth
Hopeless at stringing a sentence together
My mind is flooded with muses of the opposite sex
It’s no use I just can’t any better
I think I missed my opportunity years ago
I’m like an old professional footballer
Who is determined to dribble on regardless
When knees are fucked and eyes half blind

I’m told I am too hard on myself
And should learn to calm down
But when I’m not writing or promoting
My anxiety wants to drink up the town
Alcohol fumes would numb the pain
That comes with years of catastrophic failure
When one drink or one poem is never enough
And point of view will never be brighter

For a moment of madness
I thought I could fit in
Between the writers and philosophers
But I couldn’t make it onto their last page
I’m just a dirty mark on a footnote
Of a discarded book that’s out of print

Is time to retire my pathetic word play
Leave a space on the stage for anybody
That can make sense and rhyme of poetry
Even the dogs bone is more talented than me
In a world I should not have been born to
In a beautiful land I should not have moved to
I have no talent and I have no home
Just an awkward friend , my imposter syndrome