I have not written a poem in some time. Recently, I have had this one looping through my mind. The constant struggle of productivity VS waste of time. However, how can one put limits on life’s little joys.
Why do I feel like I need a purpose just to write?
As if having love for it isn’t enough to win the fight.
I must be productive or else it is a waste of time.
Sometimes the ink on paper fills like a crime.
Staring back at me as I stand trial.
The words written proof of my denial.
Filled notebook sit on the shelf with a status of sin.
Every time I look at them I note the time that went in.
A part of me says it should have never been. Each one witness of a moment when
I could have chosen something else to begin.
Why do I feel so guilty for such an innocent task.
As if, for permission, I forgot to ask.
Why deny myself this tiny pleasure?
As if doing so gives someone wrongs to measure.
I deny myself life’s nuggets of gold
driven by all the things that I’ve been told.
My heart bleeds with every drop of ink.
Knowing what it needs but too numb to think
Part of me scoffs at the words written in smudgy black.
Wondering where the talent is I obviously lacked.
A critical eye to say the least.
So critical, it can steal peace.
A part of me looks on with disapproving eyes. While the other half desperately clings to its prize.
Which is right and which is wrong?
Which of them do not belong?
Heather Congrove 