Before I was stupid
I was creative.
The world doesn’t want creative.
The world wants inventive.
The world wants practicality.
The world wants physical perfection.
Before I was stupid
I thought I had talent.
I thought I could share this talent with the world.
But that was before I was stupid.
Time came for me to go to school.
I met other children. I met other adults.
Then I learnt that I was not creative.
I learnt that I was stupid.
My parents understood that
The world did not want creative.
The world wanted practicality.
I failed at every hurdle.
I did not have physical perfection
And I did not have practicality.
It is said that stupid people do not know
That they are stupid.
But I do. I know.

He came home early and caught me at it.
‘How could you?’ he cried, hurt, wounded.
Disbelieving.
‘I’ve had enough,’ he yelled. I’m leaving.”
How did it come to this?
One cross word was all it took
To tear apart the life we shared,
The things we did
To show we cared.
If I could turn back time
I would not commit
The cheating act,
Which made him sad.
Such hurtful crime.
Oh why did I get tempted
And twist the truth,
With which, I will admit, I was extremely frugal.
I’m so sorry that I cheated
And looked up the final crossword clue
On Google.

© Carol Ann Wood

I have finally found my talent.
I ruin things.
I ruin our days, our life
With my inept ways,
My frustration, my dumb rants.
I ruin your organised mind
And your practical intentions.
I ruin the weather, the mood,
I ruin your lovingly cooked food.
I am the Chelsea Football Club of everything.
Maybe that’s why they’re my team.
Ruining things whether I win or lose.
Ruination is my talent.

Just for once,
I would love to drink bubbly in bed.
And allow myself to eat olive toast
Without worrying about the crumbs.
Just for that moment.
Just for once, I would love to decide
That the day doesn’t have to be the same
As the day before, and the one before that.
Just for once, I would love to believe that I can.
Without worrying about the next day.
Just for once, I would love to feel capable,
Capable of entertaining, of cooking, cleaning,
Of writing, of being loved,
Of choosing, of deciding.
I feel none of these things.
There were a few brief moments
When I felt that I could feel them.
But maybe its too late for me.
Even so, I’d love to feel that way again.
Just for once.

There was a time when your urgency was exciting.
A time when you were excited by urgency.
You held my hand and left the dishes behind.
The dishes could wait. I couldn’t.
But that was then, and now is now.
That kind of urgency doesn’t exit for the older couple.
Dishes are urgent.
Dishes have to be cleared, stacked and put
Neatly into their correct place.
The dishes have replaced passion.
The dishes are your passion.
And just as the dishes must be in their correct place,
I must, too.
So I just simply slink away and die a little more inside
When I think of the time before dishes were urgent.

Just a torn of piece of paper sums up how you never care,
He’s your son for Christ’s sake and yet you didn’t want him there.
Even though you stirred his feelings up throughout the childhood years,
Leaving us to pick up all the hurt and wipe away his tears.
Have a drink on me, it said, this shabby shameful letter.
And a fiver in a cheap, crap card. You don’t get any better.
He’s an adult now and a nicer one than you could ever be.
For he may have half your genes, but not your ways, it’s plain to see.
Was it worth all that to hurt me, as you tried to make him choose?
Did you not think that in the end, you’d be the one to lose?
We’ve never fed him any lies, we never soured your name.
But he worked out all by himself you were playing a ***** game.
Now you’re a sad and lonely fool, a worthless also-ran,
And we took a child AFTER he was seven,
And we made him the man.

© Carol Ann Wood