Behind the Poem: Workless

Today, I'd like to revisit a poem I wrote a few years ago, titled Workless. Read it here. 

I wrote it when I was 22 years old. I was lost and confused; I had no idea what to do with my life. I looked all around me and saw nothing but fear and failure. I was so terrified to become like them, full of broken dreams and diverted plans. I worried so much about falling short of my aspirations and goals, that I projected my worst fears onto others. 

But now I understand... that no one who gets up every single day and commits to any job or pursuit (no matter how small) could ever be considered a 'failure'. As you grow older, your dreams change and evolve, just as you do. Not to mention, life has a habit of getting in the way. I've come to understand that success is about trying and learning, and revising what you thought was right for you. 

In the poem, I refer to the sorrow one feels when they're not where they wanted or planned to be – which is a normal and relatable human experience. However, I've learnt that the best parts of life are often found in the paths you least expected. Not in your dreams or meticulously detailed plans, but in the dreams you didn't know you had yet. Or that never occurred to your mind to beget. You don't know what you could learn from a pursuit you didn't necessarily choose. You don't know the connections and knowledge you might gain to propel you forward. Instead of fighting change, we should embrace it and trust it to lead us to a better place. 

So long as we're alive on this green earth, our journeys and lessons are not over. There is always hope, always light, always a fighting chance. In the meantime, manning a stall of fruit is as noble an endeavour as any. Cutting and weighing meat at the butcher – quite alright.

I've written an updated version of 'Workless', drawing inspiration from 'de library waz right down from de trolly tracks' by Ntozake Shange. It's a fun piece, one that reflects my newfound perspective on purpose and career paths. I also would like to note that the original poem was written in a mock Shakespearean style. But this one is written in the rhythm and cadence of all the Black women who've inspired me – emphasising the fact that I don't want or need Shakespeare's job anymore. 

I call it 'Mouthful'. 

Da google form ax me

Whyz do I wanna be a poetry reviewer? 

And so, I wrote:

Well, I donts

For 27 years I been shackled like a ghost

Till I discovered poems

They put my spirit back into its place

And breathed life into my bones

What do they call it now... poet?

Literary agent?

SEO researcher? Cause we can't tell

Nobody we is wizards

Ancient magicians

Experts at wishful thinkin'

I was haunting the shelves

Of the library at 12

Oh, how I'd pay to get paid for being myself