Gay on a Budget >> Where Writers Go To Die

i’m not a poet but i’ll write poetry

 

woke up this morning with plans to seize the day

today’s the day i find myself, i said

time to get that anna wintour work ethic

and the imagination of j.k. rowling and joss whedon’s love child

 

i spend my days thinking about stories i never write

looking at the clock and realizing the day is over

tomorrow, i always say

tomorrow, i always say

 

tomorrow is a filthy word

nothing gets done tomorrow

stuff gets done now

you’ve never done anything tomorrow

 

i’m consumed by fear and chest wringing anxiety

at the thought of how many tomorrows i’ve been lost in

how many characters disintegrated to nothingness

how many New York Times bestseller maybes have slipped away

 

i wonder if i would’ve made it big by now

am i too old to impress people for being successful

isn’t it expected by now

i’m almost old enough to get married and not shock anyone

 

i yearn to break from these chains

constructed of fear of creation

fear of judgment

fear that maybe i’m not good enough to do the one thing i want to do more than anything else

 

i have no answers

but i have lists

lots and lots of lists

productivity highways to nowhere for me

 

i just want to be somebody

i want the right kind of love

i want confidence

but all i do is complain

 

and i know why too

“people only say negative things

“when they don’t have any confidence

“in themselves”