I’m drawn to the romance of failure.
I’d like to be remembered as someone
who followed their passions
and did their own thing,
even when it wasn’t easy
and wasn’t working,
when it didn’t turn out
as well as it might have done.

I refused to be deterred or to compromise.
I kept to my plan.
I had my own agenda, my own routine,
my own way of doing things,
that flew in the face of convention,
of popular conceptions
of how things should be undertaken,
of right and wrong even.

I shunned obvious career moves.
I didn’t conform.
Nine to five in a stuffy office
was a path for others.
I never saved for a mortgage.
I couldn’t buy a new car.
I couldn’t afford a house.
Yes I was drawn to the romance of failure.

Success has its own limitations.
Imagine if my poems, stories or novels
had ever been popular.
Imagine if I’d been recognised in the street,
as I went about my business.
It’s a terrifying thought,
I’m not wholly comfortable with.
I preferred to perform gigs
to half empty rooms than packed auditoriums.
I took low paid jobs.
I made choices and sacrifices,
sometimes the wrong ones.

I was unconventional.
I didn’t fulfil my parents’
hopes, ambitions and expectations.
I was a failure,
but I failed on my own terms.
For that I deserve a degree of respect,
a modicum of grudging praise
at least perhaps.

ANDY BOTTERILL