I USED TO A poem By Rowen Smith
I used to write most nights I used to write every morning I used to write about her The ballet dancer with the blonde hair and perfect smile. But then I stopped. And started eating and started drinking beer and smoking pot hoping to escape with every intention and blamed it all on OCD and guess what It worked. It worked all month all year from two thousand and twelve to twenty fourteen. It worked even if I wanted to write, even if I was inspired They call it writers block and procrastination. They all do and they all have their definitions I call it quitting I call it giving up I call it failure I call it mediocrity. So now I sit in a cold Cape Town pre-winter and I am I am inspired again I am convinced again I am motivated again I am awake again. But I still think about her. The way it could have been The way it could have been if I moved into my own place like she told me to.
Maybe it could have worked between us Maybe we could have fell in love and Maybe she could have been my wife Maybe we could even have been friends still But that time is gone Just like the time she saved me when I wrote that script When we broke down the wardrobe When I called action When I went to my sister's wedding alone where it should have been her in the seat next to me and not some ancient cousin. It should have been her with me right now, not the pot Not the over-eating, not the constant escape from my type-writer. But that can't ever be. She's married now. So now it's just me, and this computer screen. The guy who used to be obsessed about being obsessed about having OCD about a girl who had OCD and the fact that loving her means, well Nothing at all. He just beat me to it, that's all. At least he's a guy who actually deserves her. A guy who she deserves. A real man A man who knows what he wants and gets it Every minute. Every hour. Everyday All the time.
Well that's not me. I'm a writer and a poet. And us poets We live a different life and tell a different tale. But that's all about to change, or it did already Or it didn't. Maybe it will today or tomorrow Or next week. Next month. Two years from now. Three, four. I don't know. But today, I decided. I acted. I too became a real man that knows what he wants and gets it. Every minute. Every hour. Everyday All the time. From now on I am no longer infatuated by infatuation From now on I am no longer thinking about thoughts of moments that never existed. From now on I no longer think about her. The ballet dancer with the blonde hair and perfect smile. And as of tonight, in the silence of the cold Cape Town pre-winter. I call the shots again I decide on the multitudes of OCD brainwaves I get every millisecond. I decide I decide I've decided And the truth is,
I am somewhat messed up in a way. In a way that is far too complex to type or write or speak. Like all of us. Like love. I used to think that we would eventually end up together I used to love her, yes. I used to be in love with the idea of love and the idea of being in love with her and that someday she would be in love with me and we would be. But by grace it stands true that I, me, myself Already am.