If you don’t dare
to overcome the scare
and painstakingly pen
the thousand thoughts
of a numbing nation,
a lost generation,
who will?

If you don’t pay attention
to the wondrous birdsong,
that feast for meditation,
that pays no heed to our
trials and tribulation
who will?

If you forget your lover’s scent
and spend a lonely life
with your hollow heart
let out to rent
and never dream of the great leap
into welcoming terrifying arms
and all rewards that you might reap
who will?

If you never
share the satisfaction
of the fruit
of a hard day’s labour,
or the simple beauty
to be found
in the smile
of your neighbour
who will?

Why ask “who will?”
when the quill awaits you?
shed a tear
for the words
you never wrote
the time is right
to write
your next masterpiece
is to be found
at the bottom
of a rubbish pile.
I should know:
this broken heart
is on overflow.