She came over

She came over

From the bar

Sat right in front, nose to nose

Her heels were so high

She walked on her toes

Banged her drink down so hard on the table

It sloshed over the side

Which seemed like a waste to me

I thought she was trouble

Maybe I should have just stood up,

After all, she had just burst my bubble,

Left the room

Excused myself, maybe said

But this was my spot

Nearest place to a home I’d got

Sitting here all day long

Writing page after page of graffiti

Tearing it up before it was ever read

Through.

Nothing I write seems to stick

The words never fit

The way I want them to

The way they sound in my head

And now here she was sitting

At my table

Facing me down.

‘They say you’re a poet.’

‘Who does?’

‘Those guys over there...everyone.’

She rotated her hand

As if she was the queen

She could have been,

Last I knew she was older.

‘No I’m not a poet.’

‘They say you are.’

‘How can I be a poet

When my words are so jagged

The lines are too ragged

I gave up on a book

After so many rejections

I wanted to die

My stuff is a bunch of dross

Even I don’t give a toss

For it anymore

I never submit

Nobody reads or pays to read it

All it makes me is a dumbass

For keep trying

Tearing my hair out

And lying to myself that one day

I will write the perfect verse

The one I know is there

Somewhere on the inside

Just waiting to come out’

‘Bullshit.’ she spluttered

‘Sheer tosspot

You’re just a coward

A freakin’ flea-bitten

Drunkard who will never

Get published because you don’t believe’

Ouch! I thought

‘How can you say that when you don’t know me.’

‘I know enough to know

That you don’t like criticism

Are afraid of rejection and suffer from

A severe case of arthritic superego’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

‘Maybe you need it mister

Take it from this little sister

You ain’t getting any younger

If you don’t get your ass off this seat

And submit...whatever that means,

You’re just going to live in regret

And there is nothing worse... yet

Than growing old

With yourself

When the truth of it is

You were to dumb chicken shit scared

To take a risk and expose yourself

To failure

For the chance of success.’

With that she got up

Sank the remains of her drink

In one gulp

Then sauntered away.

She seemed nice

I thought to myself

Too bloody sharp, by half

Cut too deep for my liking

Or maybe not

Perhaps just deep enough

To hit the sweet spot

And I started back to writing.