The Waiting.

The Waiting is a young woman lounging at the edge of my world.

The Waiting lives up to her name, wraps my body tight in a 

Suctioned bag so I can’t bare to think about anything good

So I can’t ever reach her.

The Waiting doesn’t have the will to give as she chooses,

Otherwise I’m sure she would love to.

…

How can I have so much free time 

And not do anything with it?

I’m lazy, that must be it,

Or I’m tired, that’s a good option too,

Or I’m waiting for the lady at the edge of my bed to finally give me what I want

The Waiting keeps all my desires in her belly, 

It bloats up every morning with promise, 

And every night I lay my head on a pillow

With no feathers and no silk, 

only the rough cotton of rejection

The Waiting is a lady I’ve promised to love

To love the wait is to fill up your time with other things,

Things that have meaning

I could write, I could draw, I could read

I’ve loved reading the past few months

Instead I stare at The Waiting with pleading eyes, 

Eyes that water red until all I have left is frustration 

Where is the job? Where are the friends? Where is the success? The passion to create?
What have I done for these things to hesitate in finding me?

…

I don’t have the energy to do anything

 I’m weighed down by this, of course,

But isn’t it funny how much time I have now?

Shouldn’t I use this opportunity,

This empty space to colour the walls in 

Something meaningful?

I am a writer (a pretentious one at worst, a confusing one at best)

Without a job I can pretend to my hearts content, 

Slip away at a moments notice into the 

Brine and salt slowness of my countryside thriller

Or the singular grey of my man eating mansion

And a dinner party to die for. 

Good things come to those who wait,

and I have. Waited, I mean. For a long,

tortuously slow time until now,

and The Waiting no longer waits for me.