aka
The Best and
Worst of Times
(and all the rest)

In the best of times I recognise
My plans are mine to make or break
And the pressure I pile upon my plate
Is pressure for pressure’s sake.

But in the worst of times those bloody people
That people my bloody-minded brain,
Scream that I am wrong and weak
And make another claim
I become offended by the world at large
The coarsening of its voice
A discourse of which I want no part
And in solitude, I rejoice. 
Then I react, not act, and clearly lack
Any agency or drive
My senses dull and inward turn
And the voices then connive
To make me feel incompetent
Not because they say it’s true-
But because I believe they believe 
I lack the skill to carry through.

But things must be done
And I push myself to do them
All the while making excuses 
As deadlines tear right through them. 
And so the voices - well they’re right
If the tasks were too great
It’s not imposter syndrome 
I’m just a featherweight. 

It takes a while to shift the funk
Though Sysiphusian it feels    
And often I relapse and run right back
With the boulder on my heels
But breaking free I often find myself
In neither best nor worst of times
And can only make a middling muddle
Of the unquiet voices of my mind.