- this probably isn't in the collection, it's written to the parallel universe version of myself - the person who didn't write, who didn't invest the time and devotion into the craft and instead lived an arguably 'normal' teenage life-

I might seem like I have a hold on life

that my clothes look nice, that I act alright
back up straight looking great, that I’m no bait
for being low,
I’ve got a glow to me, I know.

My hair’s trendy, have a life, get by
I’m doing fine,
with two great eyes, I’m not blind
or shagging awful guys.

I might not be getting paid
or getting laid,
but hey I’ve got good grades,
I’m not confined or maligned
I’m refined in my own way
right?

I might not be enrolled in too many classes
‘University of Life’,
or getting twatted
on vodka trebles, no, I’m no rebel, me.

I’m not on the dole, I’m never cold
I still eat whole
grain cereal because you’re told.
Well, sometimes.

I might seem like I have a hold on life
because I get things done, one by one
I’m not outdone by anyone
I’ve got my writing, got my life, got my poetry,
got my rhymes.

I’m a wielder of a wordy notion,
my emotion: my vocation
all it required was
decade-dedication.
Yeah, I might not be recognised
I’m just alone in my room,
not conventionalised, and if it doesn’t work
then who’s the jerk but you

cos at least I tried.

- M. R. Wallis