The Amateur

I walked into a coffee shop.

It was nothing special, just a place to stop

And rest my feet

As I walked down the street.

Besides, I had nowhere to go

And nothing to show

For myself.

And as I entered,

Spent, and rendered

Mute by the blast of warm

And contrast of calm

All the hairs of my arm

Stood bolt upright,

Looking for all the world like they might

Take up arms and fight

Or take flight in spite,

Run away in the night

Like cowards.

Cos in that instant, I saw a bloke,

Clearly coffee-and-rum-soaked

Standing on one side of the room

With an air of doom and gloom

Wrapped round him like a cape,

Trying desperately not to shake

For fear of weirding out the customers.

He was sat on a bar stool,

Under a light, trying to look cool

And not act too much of a fool,

And I don’t mean to be cruel

But there was just something about

Him, his mouth all thin

And puckered, bet he stutters

When he speaks.

But then he spoke,

This shifty bloke,

And it was all I could do

Not to choke.

Cos what came out of his mouth

Made me want to shout

And stamp the ground

It was that profound.

And it became clear

That beneath the veneer

Of his off-black vest

And hairless chest

This guy was the best.

And it made me think

While I waited for my drink

That I can hardly dream

Of the last time someone else seemed keen

To hear me speak or sing,

Or read anything

That I’d bothered to make.

And I thought “for God’s sake,

If this guy can get up

And strut his stuff

And not give a fuck

Then I wish him the best of luck

But I’ll always be bitter

If I have to just sit here

And never be heard”.

Now, that might sound absurd

But it’s what I’m like,

And his success was a spike

Driving through my mind.

So I thought “fuck it.

I’m gonna go home

And I’ll write a poem

And form a plan of attack,

Then I’ll bring it back

And it’ll be me on the stool

And I won’t act the fool,

I’ll be cool, and in control.”

I walked right out of that place

At twice my previous pace

Almost running in my haste

With a desperate look on my face.

I got home, picked up a pen,

Determined to show them

Something worthy of being said.

But all my head could come up with

Was “I know about kin, but what’s kith?”

Or “Would I rather be a jedi or a sith?”

And a myriad of worthless shit.

So I looked for something to explain,

Or some small scrap of pain,

That I could expand

So it would withstand

Being pinned to paper.

But the eternal amateur

That I am can’t hope

To stand and rub shoulders

With lyrical elders,

So stands in the shelter

Of superior skill.

It just lacks that thrill,

That scent of the kill,

When you’re the only one saying something.

Instead, the recycled shreds

Of other people’s heads

Is what sends me to bed.

And when I arise

And rub sleep out my eyes,

It’s someone else’s words I’m saying.

So much it starts to sound like praying,

Begging for anything to say.

Clutching the rosary of my discontent

And wondering if my talent’s spent,

Dried up and somehow absent.

I never went back to that café,

Although I tell myself I will someday,

And even to me that voice starts to quail,

And its message is somehow stale

Cos if I try, I know I’ll fail.