Nothing Worthwhile (poem)

Today began
the very same way
as so many before.

I climbed out of bed
only in order to prevent
the voice of shame
becoming voluminous
to the point
where its echo,
might annoy me
for the duration
of daylight’s evil.

After having dragged my body
through its hygiene routines
and subjected my mind
to each despicable chore,
I found myself,
surprise, surprise,
in that all-too-familiar
humourless, unmotivated state.

– What should I be doing?

– How about writing?

– There’s nothing worth writing.

– Go out for coffee,
and after half a cup,
you’ll write,
believe me.
You’ll write about
nothing worthwhile
with such zeal
that those around you
sitting and chatting
with their partners,
children, or friends
(about nothing worthwhile)
will look at you and wonder
just what the hell
is worth working away at
so feverishly
on such a leisurely
Saturday morning.


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