It takes a lot of rehearsals to become yourself.
How many feel like extras in their own lives?
It takes a lot of practice to perfect your skills.
How mant stay apprenticed until they die?
Fingers tussle in the rag-bag, pull out loose ends
of good intention, sew a quilting of meant-well
to warm old hands and feet that never did
and never went. Some never had the chance,
others never saw theirs. Some just slept,
others never found rest. Some trudged like
reluctant donkeys, others ran like hares.
The day breaks at dawn and crashes at dusk
having traversed an ocean and acres
of cheap nylon carpet, gin and tonic,
top of the range shag-pile, car parks and pubs.
Some blood and grey stubble in the bathroom,
some sagging tinsel on a fading tree,
gold and silver remnants of a better
kind of day. A half-read newspaper with
its neglected crossword takes up more space
than it should but can stay a little longer,
a reminder of a time gone and near.
I'm new, and still bumbling round this site/forum. I planted this in the "I write....." section but in the wrong way, or something. You wanted poems, so here's a start. Thank (he who must not be named) for people who still like poetry. Have you tried Dallas's Ars Poetica?