Poem: Triple Dip

Triple Dip

A writer’s tale of the recessions

 

At the first dip my editor wanted me to move faster. With no time to love or study, I flew across the world in a hurry. But my work life flashed before my eyes when I was first at the scene of a crime. I saw the truck drive too fast and life cut too short and I ripped up my notebook of futility and thought. I felt too much to be objective about a homicide’s inflective.

 

At the second dip my editor wanted me to stay down. I wrote alone in a darkened room and withered away. I analysed obscurities and lost my spontaneity. I choked down cheap rum to mellow my protests as I pursued a career in a mess. I kept in line but eventually cracked at the limit of wasted time.

 

By the third dip, I wasn’t sure I needed my editor anymore.

I said my life is in progress and needs a first draft. Your edits to my freedom now seem rather daft. I keep my mistakes and my quirks and the pain that still lurks when I doubted I’d make it today. You want to digress but I define my own success and now I understand me. I had to kill the editor before the editor killed what I could be.

 

Life and work mooshed together in code.
Performed at Forget What You Heard (about spoken word).

Published by aleekwrites

Amanda Leek Content Marketer. Creative Copywriter. Journalist. Poetry. Writing. Doodles.