It feels like the words are stacked against me,
Get this done and maybe I’ll be free,
Right now the ending I cannot see.
Miles of words to go until I can end this show,
Forward is the only way I know how to go,
How I’ll actually get there, not even I know…
We’re better than any star rating. Our stuff is better than any star rating, good or bad. There isn’t a review out there that really reflects the journey a writer has taken to lay down those words. So many that judge simply do not know and most will never know. A book is more than a collection of words. It’s a journey created by an anthology of feelings that person has gone through in life and in mind.
There is no formal teaching for telling a story. One finds that within and their ability is tracked through the works they give to the world. Those words in that time are a moment but the creator is already several moments into the future.
What you discover in the present could be another writers past. They may have already used those words to better themselves and to grow or to learn. Not many will ever understand that; but as I said they just don’t know. And maybe that is the real difference of creator and reader; one has the real appreciation for the process, the journey, the feeling and the want; the desire to get better and move forward constantly.
Our work will be perceived as good today but we want it to get better tomorrow making our work yesterday open for criticism but maybe just important to the person who created it.
Most artists will never face the question of why but more the question of how. Perhaps that’s something which is overlooked when judging work…
Many of us create to beat the blues,
So don’t blame me for the 2 star reviews.
Something I made way back when,
Words I’ve moved on from since then.
Although it may still be a piece of me,
Publishing it set those words free.
A thousand days of thinking it through,
Just to create something for you.
My stuff may never be your cup of tea,
But it’s not for you, it’s for me…
The night worker is paid for their time but the currency is sleep. For every shift they work they are for the night to keep.
The entire world has gone to bed and then there’s us, the night worker’s who keep the place running, our appetite in tatters, our eyes tired and our bodies weary.
Keep the lights dimmed. Let the Coffee, tea and sugar keep our systems running.
Is there another soul out there? Sometimes my eyes play tricks, guess that’s just the fatigue or perhaps something else..
Torchlight down corridors and hallways that lay silent. Did the door behind just open? A vending machine, my beacon of light, don’t swallow my change, I need this, alright.
Time seems to crawl and I’m feeling adrift. I’m just waiting for the light to give me just a little lift. Find any way to pass the eternal time. All of this just for the extra dime.
Early morning sky brings that light, my stomach realises and comes back my appetite.
Soon we’ll go home past the ‘normies’ who work all day. While I’ll be in the dark trying to drift away.
Sensitive to light and tired for days. But I’ve always got plans, always.
I guess I like it but sometimes need to vent, for this truly is the night workers lament.