Dirty dishes in the kitchen
grotty teabags in the sink
a pile of unread papers
and I just don't want to think.
There's dust on my guitar
and my novel is unwritten
and I need to do some sewing
but these thoughts swim up unbidden.
I'm so sick of being useless,
Always struggling, always late
never up to standard
feeling like I've blown my fate
Like I could have been so awesome
That potential's unrealised
because the pressure to be perfect
has left me paralysed
I'd rather just do nothing
than try, and get it wrong
it's why I never worked with oils,
wrote a book, composed a song.
If another person wrote this
I'd tell them let it be,
Just have fun and do not worry....
but it's different when it's me.