This is my first post here. Apologies for being late to the party. Actually the theme for the month struck home to me. There are plenty of times that I wonder what I’m doing with my life. Why aren’t I more accomplished? After all, I’m a millennial. I’m alive, and I showed up. So…
Where is My Participation Trophy?
I have created nothing.
I lie to myself, but know I’m bluffing
Watch years down to seconds flow by in slow succession.
Blank pages and canvas beg for answers to questions
I’d answer if effort didn’t cause indigestion.
Inactive or active, un-honed skills cause depression.
And the need I don’t feed, in the blood an infection
that must be drawn out. I must leave an impression.
But I have created nothing.
The ideas just trickle. No more are they gushing.
There are stories still trapped, still stuck in my head,
And stories I loved years ago my dad read,
There’s no one I read to, tucked into bed
rapt at attention, little smiles that spread
at the worlds wonders, till to dreams they are led.
The end of my traditions, and stillborn new ones I dread.
I have finished nothing
and have no children forthcoming.
I am writing a novel that came to me in a dream
sixteen years and four drafts ago. God did it cream
my tiny ten year old brain. Knocked it flat as it teemed
with a thousand ideas, now all torn at the seams.
Useless now? Or still tinder? Strike at flint. Will it gleam?
Though it’s slow sweat and effort, hope is building up steam.
One day will I read it to my children?
Its my story to tell, only my will to bend.