I’ll work with what I’ve got but I don’t get what I want.
Chin up; change my clothes
Just for once can I be the one that someone wants?
Without my clothes or a bottle of wine
A chance to get to know me and how I spend my time.
Stop it with that shit.
I could be the last man alive and I somehow I’d still fluff it
You could stuff every card up my sleeve but I’d still have to turn and leave
I’m caring, passionate, and would be first up with you cup of tea
The only time you’d doubt my love is if I couldn’t tell you,
being stranded out at sea
So, I have it in me to tell you all these things
And where does it leave me?
Who wants to love me?
(Maybe even ____ me)
NB: When I first tweeted this out, I said it was for anyone who struggles with confidence. I’ve quickly worried that that was misleading – this isn’t exactly a chipper poem. Rather, it’s to empathise with those who share the frustration of feeling that they do everything they’re told, and try not to let confidence be an issue, but for whom it just is. The general reaction, I find, ends up being a simple Urgh.