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Interview
No good can come of this.
Losing out on sleep, to add up scores.
Against strangers that know nothing of me.
Nothing sane can come of this.
Only bruises to add to battered skin,
And a heart, not broken, but diminished.
Each blow is just further proof,
Of a life where failure can’t be removed,
Where plans begin but never finish,
And ‘no’ is the only answer,
To a question whispered and often ignored.
Ambition is a state of mind,
And failure is a foe of mine.
The score slipped below a minus number,
And words of encouragement won’t help it recover.
Nothing promising can come of this.
Because my game was over,
Before the cellophane came off the box.
And ‘yes’ is the only answer,
To a foe that knows me and a game that owns me.
