I stand in the entrance
to the Tate Modern;
my heart is beating like a drum
and I cannot move.
But the world did not end
nor did the heavens open
as I had thought. You are still
not here and I am still alone
alone as I was five minutes
earlier when I entered the building.
The world keeps on turning
just as I keep on breathing
and you keep on not being here
So here I am, stumbling in the slow lane
while you race ahead, as if life
is a race to win one day.
I write words
and then delete them
I conjure up whole weird worlds
in my head and stare at blank pages.
You speed past me while I hit bump
after bump in the road,
the rain is fogging my view and I can’t see round the bends.
On social media everything is rosy
but in real life things aren’t so I know
but it’s hard to remember
when it seems like everyone is speeding on
while I hit a roadblock,
searching for the words
swimming against the tide, pushing back
trying to capture that something special
whatever it is, create art,
create magic, a way of living –
the only way to be alive
the only way to survive
make art and hold your head
above the crowd
even if you’re left behind.