Two of Me

I feel like I've got two lives, like there's two of me,

On one hand, I'm a father,

Dad to two boys, the apples of my eye.

But then there's me. 

 

I love those boys with all my heart, with all my soul, my only goal

Is their happiness and welfare. 

I get cross. They wind me up, frustrate me, but,

Whatever they want to do is what I want to do.

But then there's me. 

 

I've got ambitions. Things I want to do.

Things I want to see. Want to make a difference.

Always felt there's something in me that one day will come out.

Wasn't good enough at football, can't sing, can't think of a thing,

That I'm actually good enough to make it my life's work,

My crowning glory, that thing I'm known for.

 

Some of its about the root of all evil. Of course it is. 

Money may not bring satisfaction but it can certainly bring security

But then, I had jobs, maybe was ungrateful for the career opportunities I had,

Got paid. Got paid well at times.

Being credit worthy only brought debt.

Now there's less in my pocket but conversely I own more,

Or at least, creditors own less of mine.

 

So I'm happy with my boys, my family,

Sometimes I forget the other me.

Probably for the best. Never liked him much anyway.

But next minute, that is me. I'm angry.

I want time to myself and not just time to dust the shelf,

Do the washing, cleaning, shopping, more washing. 

Get ready to start again.

I want time for that penny to drop, that muse to sing,

To tell me about that thing, that's going to bring fulfilment,

Satisfaction (I can't get no)

 

Is writing this that thing? Maybe.

But I'm only doing it cos I just watched Kate Tempest on the telly.

Fucking good it was to hear her talking of all that strife,

Eloquent, enlightened and entertaining.

But I've never written a poem in my fucking life,

And I'm not about to start. 

 

So I'm still waiting for that thing to appear,

Waiting to hear, that voice in my head, loud and clear

The thought finally coming, the inspiration for which I've waited.

Not patiently.

But that's just me.

What am I going to do? What am I going to be?

Probably had half my life,  and sometimes that feels like a good thing,

There's plenty of time left though, to make my mark, to leave my legacy.

I

But why won't it come though, that thing.

Like waiting for a phone to ring, with good news.

It never is though.

Actually, of course it is sometimes. Mostly, things are good.

Plenty to enjoy.

Music, films, football, eating. Those boys.

But (apart from those boys) none of those things are mine.

I didn't create them, invent them, think of or perform them.

Just watched someone else do it and that always leaves me short.

Watching other people do stuff. 

I enjoy. Love my team to win. Laugh whole heartedly at quality comedy.

Still leaves me though, with that feeling of jealousy. That the only ability,

Is for me, to pass comment, my opinion, like I know, like anyone else cares,

Like a critic, like the type of prick,

That tries to deliver, via Twitter every bit of self-righteous, mis-spelled wisdom.

O

M

G

Is that me? 

Or him?

I forgot which way round it is now.

 

I think the conclusion for which I yearn, that thing I have to learn,

Is that the me I thought I was, that I hoped to be, isn't.

I'm not giving up, it still could happen. That fellow could be me.

But stop wanting it so much, especially in this frustrated and depressed,

State of anxiety. Self-perpetuated by perceived failure.

Maybe. And, often I think, definitely,

That thing, that real me,

Is the man who loves my wife and family.

 

But now I feel guilty.

Taking time to write this self indulgent nonsense.

Somedays getting my chores done is the right the thing to do,

Got to be done. Don't want a mess. Prefer order, not chaos. Cleanliness.

In turn, that makes me angry. Back to square one.

Desperate for that elusive inspiration.

Remember Holly Johnson saying "I'm looking for something,

But I don't know what it is".

That's me.

Don't know where to start.

Do what you're good at. Do what you're passionate about.

 

Shit.

 

Nothing.

 

There must be fucking something.

 

There is.

Those boys. My wife and family. Not that other me.

 

Furious Styles said "any fool can make a baby,

But it takes a real man to be a father". 

That brings some solace. Assuming that's what I am being.

Think I am.

Or am I looking for reassure. Fishing for compliments to ease insecurity.

Making excuses for why I didn't achieve. Believe,

That I could be, that other me.

(Which way round was it again?)

Who has definitely got that undiscovered talent for which and from which,

He's going to be, successful, rewarded, accomplished, published, 

Satisfied. 

 

And just as quickly, I'm back.

Shovel in hand.

Digging that dirty great hole of self-pity to fill back up again with chips from my shoulder.