If I don’t have a job by the time I’m twenty two

If I don’t have a job,

By the time I’m 22,

I wouldn’t like to say,

What madness would ensue.

Boredom is a friend,

That I have come to know too well,

And frustration sits beside me,

In this unemployment hell.

The three of us do lay,

Tangled in my bed,

And it’s a constant daily battle,

To raise this sleepy head.

My pillows hold Miss Disappointment,

And the tears she cries at night,

And daily life reminds me that,

Nothing’s turned out right.

Or at least how I’d expected,

How I’d hoped and planned,

There must be many of us,

Who know and understand.

Where have all the jobs gone?

Are there any left?

Will I ever get one?

Will I always be bereft?

I don’t want to clean toilets,

I’ve done my share of that.

I don’t want to work in retail,

Selling accessories and hats.

I want to work with books,

Smell the pages, write the backs,

And immerse myself in stories,

And escape into the stacks.

If you’re a publisher hear my cry,

This is a desperate plea.

Read my cover letter,

And please get back to me.

It’s only been a few months,

But I feel like giving in,

I’m screwing up this dream,

It’s going in the bin.

If I don’t have a job,

By the time I’m 22,

I really wouldn’t like to say,

What career I would pursue.

It might involve a balaclava,

In a fine shade of blue.

Because blacks a bit too ominous,

And navy goes better with these shoes.

I’d climb through open windows,

And creep in through the doors,

Start abseiling down your curtains

To then crawl on polished floors.

Please save me from a life of crime,

From steeling bags of rice,

From rioting in Summer,

Instead of journeying somewhere nice.

I have so much to offer,

If you only gave a chance,

If you accept my application,

I’ll grace my kitchen with a dance.

By me, Rebecca Palmer, the disillusioned fed up graduate who seems to be getting absolutely nowhere in her non-existent publishing career. Today I am so unbelievably fed up that to save myself from writing to every publishing company to beg for a job, I have decided to take my library books back and stretch my legs.

I hope the above poem isn’t too dire. I just needed to empty my brain of all of today’s hopelessness and frustration.

It was surprisingly cathartic to write and the words fell clumsily onto the keyboard in about ten minutes.

Write when the mood takes you. However ridiculous the result may be.

x

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